Falling Through the Cracks
by Aimme
Summary: His mask was flawless. His walls were perfectly structured. Protection and cautionary containment at its finest. Even a perfect pretend held fractures, though... (No slash)
1. Harsh Sobs Burn From the Inside Up

Falling Through the Cracks  
>by <strong>Aimme<strong>,  
>with touches by <strong>My Note Book<strong>

**Summary: **His mask was flawless. His walls were perfectly structured. Protection and cautionary containment at its finest. Even a perfect pretend held fractures, though, and no matter how strong his glue, under the right circumstances, glue cracked and had to be gutted and filled in again.

**Author's Notes:** I do not write twincest, slash, or anything of the like. Pure, platonic, brotherly love at its finest is all that I write, so you can hold the same expectation for all of my stories; I also do not write purple prose nor explicit material about sex, if I ever even mention it at all. For some of us, it is really quite relieving to have that kind of assurance at the top of stories, because things we do not want to read are running rampant through the fandom(s) and debasing our favourite characters and the established canon, and, in some cases, adding filth to our minds and making us wish we had a container of Lysol or Lemon Pledge handy to do some mind-scrubbing, eyeball-cleaning after we have run afoul of the scarring and scaring material. That is my humble opinion and my two cents, you can take it or leave it, because it really does not matter which one you do.  
><strong>(Warnings:)<strong> Furthermore, some of the issues dealt with in this story are delicate ones, and I ask that if you are weak of heart, please do not hurt yourself. See the rest of the author's note at the end...  
>Additionally, there is angst-galore ahead, so if you (like me) are pretty much an angst-whore, enjoy!<br>**  
>Disclaimers:<strong> Don't own it, don't know if I want to. I just want to play here.

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Chapter One - Harsh Sobs Burn From the Inside Up

_Oh, if only I could find someone  
>To forgive me for the things I've done<br>To tell you or not, to let you in or keep hidden  
>To fess up the secrets that I hide so deeply<br>I'd rather not face the terror of knowing me  
>When I know all that is better left forgotten<em>

The back wall had twenty-six four-inch long cracks, five twelve-inch runs, and one half-inch margin in the far corner. Otherwise, the wall was flawless. Tipton construction at its finest. He knew exactly where each one was…and he knew how they got there. He had stared at that blank expanse, in unsoiled perfection for too long; he had finally, on two or three occasions, marred that flawless wall. Nothing was perfect; no wall held. No mask was without cracks.

Now, he memorized their seemingly random, jagged lines, hugging his knees to his chest and stuck so far inside himself he had forgotten what was important beyond the confines he secluded himself in. Perhaps there was a method to chance, and chance itself was not so un-ordained and random; perhaps even "at random" was less that and held its own precision.

Perhaps life was a black hole sucking the life out of space itself.

Like broken veins drained his lifeblood from his very existence.

The jagged lines had become blurred. They ran and wavered, but they would not disappear. His whole being fit inside those jagged lines, crammed into the sharp and serrated ravines that marred an isolating wall.

His mask was flawless. His walls were perfectly structured. Protection and cautionary containment at its finest. Even a perfect pretend held fractures, though, and no matter how strong his glue, under the right circumstances, glue cracked and had to be gutted and filled in again.

Blood flowed from these cuts. And when his cracks were covered over, it gathered beneath, creating pressure—lending to the splintering of his holding glue. When it had no outlet, it pooled, waiting for him to gut the cracks, cutting them open again, and the blood seeped through, hot and sticky and painful. But oh so morbidly satisfying. He would be driven to the point of needing it, _craving_ it, the release and relieving of that pressure a small catch of air to crashing lungs.

And it got so hard to breathe.

His heart was a burning white-hot ember a million times hotter than the surface of the sun.

The knot in his chest twisted, pulling tighter, and suffocation was a rather detached thought in his darkening mind. Panic pushed to set in, but deep inside him he watched with a disconnected air of calm from the plague stealing over him. It was getting hard to breathe; let it. The cracks spread a little more; let them. The world was a blurry mass of swirling colours of dark tinges, branding his eyes with searing heat; he left them alone.

A sob choked him, forcing a seizure from broken shoulders. He held his knees tighter, muffling the cry of agony in the fabric. It was choked and caught and buried, but it closed off his throat and threatened already failing lungs.

His heart pressed against the obstruction, forcing another broken sob from airways that could not handle the loss of more air.

His chest tightened and the pressure increased, and his breathing was short and ragged.

And then came the Voices.

'_Idiot…'_

Self-deprecating.

'_Stupid, never get anything right…'_

Self-criticizing.

'_You're a lost cause; should've ended it a long time ago…'_

Self-condemning.

'_You're just a useless mass; you're only taking up space. You're worthless.'_

Self-loathing.

As if it were possible, his chest tightened more, that choking, aching, burning knot twisting more, turning his insides into one big lump of suffocating pain. Another sob caught in his throat, cutting off his air when it met the obstruction there and jerking his shoulders.

He couldn't breathe.

'_Good.'_

This voice was always laughing, always laced with hate, always the last note of condemnation—more than he could take.

Shaking, panicking hands snatched at his one release. The metal was cold and haunting, but full of promise.

When he laid the blade to his skin, a tingling prickle raced across his scalp. His breath became more ragged, his world clearing only marginally, only briefly. The anticipation of what was to come brought his concentration into sharp focus as his whole being zeroed in on metal against flesh; his whole body tensed in waiting, as if having drawn its very own bated breath.

Pressure. The knife drew blood, a thin trail of bright, shining blood, the colour of Valentine's Day cards—those pointless, heart-shaped ones that had nothing on the true depth of what really lay in his chest. They were fitting then; like everything else, they weren't telling of all that lay within.

Another sob rent its tearing way out.

He pressed deeper, the glue splitting more, separating, gorges running through its previous act of holding those fractures together.

Deep, deep crimson red bubbled up, pooling, burning hot and a grant of release at last. He fancied this vital liquid was so dark, it was black. Like the night. Like the deep depth of the sea—if it was an ocean of blood. Like his future. Like him.

Another sob beat against the pressure in his knot of a chest, the Voices silenced, and his harsh breath was all he could hear at last.

Dropping the tool of his escape, he felt another catch of air slip into starving lungs, but his sobs left him breathless, his head reeling and light. He gripped his arm, fingers pressing on either side of the jagged crack, fingers slicked with hot, sticky blood, holding the divide together as the lifeblood bubbled and pooled and flowed out. He curled in on himself, clutching the blood-soaked appendage to his chest.

And, reeling and light-headed, breathless and bleeding, Zack Martin cried.

_The pressure begins in my heart  
>Builds up beneath my bloody scars<br>You know harsh sobs burn from the inside up  
>Colours dim and my whole world begins to darken<br>Behind the voices, where's the one to whom I wish to hearken?  
>You'll get here just in time to see me mess up<em>

-0-

**Author's Note Continued:** I do not support the practice of cutting, but I do realise it is a rampant disturbance in our society. If you are having problems, though, I encourage you to talk to someone; I do not encourage or endorse cutting.


	2. Happy Smiles and Bright Colours

Falling Through the Cracks  
>by <strong>Aimme<strong>,  
>with touches by <strong>My Note Book<strong>

**Summary: **His mask was flawless. His walls were perfectly structured. Protection and cautionary containment at its finest. Even a perfect pretend held fractures, though, and no matter how strong his glue, under the right circumstances, glue cracked and had to be gutted and filled in again.

**Author's Notes:** Please see the first chapter for all thorough disclaimers, warnings, and notations made by the author(s). Furthermore, I (**Aimme**) would like to take a moment to say that this chapter is a change of pace from the last one, but bear with me and bear with it. While it may seem to be as a filler chapter, it is still part of the story. I hope you all enjoy it nonetheless or at least for what it is!  
><strong>Additionally<strong>, I (**Aimme**), and also on behalf of **My Note Book**, would like to thank our anonymous reviewer, BlackKeys96, for taking the time to leave us a comment! We appreciate it, hope you come back for round two, and that you enjoy the rest of the story just as much (well, we'll start with this chapter, huh?). See the note at the bottom about updating!

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Chapter Two - Happy Smiles and Bright Colours Upon a Beaten Surface

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"_Memory is a child walking along the seashore. You never can tell what small pebble it will pick up and store away among its treasured things." -Pierce Harris_

"Cody, want to get some lemonade?"

"No, thanks, Woody. Life already gave me lemonade." Cody waved the other boy off with a bright smile, thinking of his recent time spent with the girl of his dreams.

"I can't imagine why," Woody pouted, turning away. "Life never gave _me _lemonade. Sometimes, _Zack _won't even give me lemonade! Ooh!" he turned back, grinning and bouncing. "Do you suppose life would give me a giant super burrito and a large fries?"

Cody gave his roommate an odd look. "Burrito and fries? Those two aren't even in the same-"

"Un!" Woody protested, holding up a finger, shooting Cody a warning look. "If I don't eat the fries, how will I have a full serving of veggies?" He looked very self-satisfied.

Cody frowned. "Woody," he began, slowly. "_Fries _can hardly be considered healthy _or _your serving of vegetables considering that-"

"You can never let a person dream," Woody stomped his foot. "I need a lemonade now and a large Banana Fofana," he declared, pouting his way out of their shared cabin.

Cody shook his head, reaching into his pocket as his phone vibrated. He grinned at the display, a text message notification informing him that his girlfriend had sent him one.

_Hey, Cody! Sorry I had to run off on you earlier; London's "wardrobe problems" have been solved_—_and it only took her modeling 37 different outfits, but she did care more for her mirror's input than mine. I'll see you in a little bit for our day off, alright? Luv you! Bye. Bailey._

Grinning, Cody sent her a short message in reply, clicking the send button before flipping his cellphone shut.

_That's alright, Bails. Only 37? That's a new record. See you soon. Lots of love, Cody._

Stretching lazily after pocketing his phone, he breathed deeply and then frowned as he returned his arms to his side. He absently rubbed his left wrist, shaking his head as if to clear it. With another smile, Cody turned his attention to his desk, which was unusually mussed at the moment as he had left a textbook or two lying open.

He bookmarked his places and set the school books aside, reorganizing the loose papers of notes and homework assignments. He shuffled the few remaining out of place objects to where they belonged, straightening up his mess as he waited. It wasn't necessary; he was a neat person by nature and kept his things organized and tidy, but what few things were out of place, he fixed.

Once returning his desk to its proper order, he sat in his chair and pondered his next move. After a moment, his gaze fell on the corner of an envelope of developed photos lying beneath a textbook, a remnant of Bailey's scrap-booking exploits. He must have missed this envelope of gathered favourites the last time he helped her get several batches of photos developed, which would be ages ago now.

Picking it up, he made a mental note to take it with him to meet with Bailey. He had to wonder if she even needed them now…but he shook his head the moment that thought entered it. If she had filled one book, she'd simply start another. She'd be happy to have the extras. Curious as to what was in this batch, he opened the envelope to glance at some pictures.

As he pulled out the photos, he smiled at the ones on the top, the memories captured therein. One was of Bailey and Addison smiling crazily at the camera in front of the zoo entrance in England. Another was of London glaring cross-eyed at her high heel, followed by one of Zack carrying London piggy-back at the zoo, because she promised him 50 bucks—she had worn spiky heels to an all-day field trip to the zoo, and had quickly become tired. Yet another of London screaming at the lion before her—it was in a cage, of course, but she was terrified regardless. Another of Cody and Bailey smiling at the camera, with London tripping on a crack in the pavement (dratted spiky heels, right?) and taking a tumble into the fountain in the background.

He grinned at the horror on London's face in the next picture, captured forever dripping wet and mortified.

There were several more from that same trip. Woody running from a caged -but angry- baboon; Addison framing the lion's face with her hands, though she technically stood a handful of paces away from the cage; Woody staring in wide-eyed terror at the snake exhibit; Marcus giving the camera a chill look with his arm around a gator—a statue of one, that is; Zack chasing a high-tailing Woody across the lawn in front of the wild bird exhibit; Zack tackling Woody on the green, and several confused onlookers backing away from the scuffle.

He flipped to the next photo and stifled a laugh at the memory. They had gone for ice-cream, and Woody had promptly lost his two-scoop top—the horror as he stared at the melting goo on the ground was obvious. Then one of London caught in a rare moment of sheer undignified glee, as she stuck her tongue out for a lick of ice cream but had stared at the camera instead. Marcus looking decidedly like a pig with _two_ cones in his hands. Zack giving the ice cream vendor a rather blank look, for the poor man had handed one twin a plain vanilla and had intended to give the other mint chocolate chip—and had given Zack the _wrong _cone. The next photo, the vendor was obviously confused as he asked who had ordered the mint chocolate chip and Zack informed him that that was his, whilst holding a vanilla in one hand and relieving the flustered man of the mint with the other.

It had been obvious that Zack had ordered only one cone, for the man distinctly remembered that there had been two separate people, but in the crowd he had begun to confuse his orders.

A smirk turned the corners of Cody's lips as he flipped to the next picture, knowing what came after. However, his smile slipped slightly, because the next was one of a museum tour in Brussels, Belgium. The Museum of Europe, to be exact. It was a group photo outside the building, but it was definitely not the one he was thinking of.

"_Cody, you'll just have to order yourself another one, as this one appears to also be mine." _Zack had decided to hold onto the extra cone, turning to inform his brother of this new development, but he promptly found his face full of vanilla ice-cream as Cody shoved the stolen cone into his brother's face. _"You're right. I'll have to get another." _The shock in his elder's expression as the ice-cream was shoved into his face had been priceless, and Bailey had snapped the picture at exactly the right moment. The immediate following one had been the ice-cream slipping slowly down his face and splattering on the ground, and Zack's expression had been frozen (pun intended) in surprise.

Both photos were strangely absent, skipping to the museum tour.

Maybe they'd gotten out of order. He shrugged and continued flipping through the stack.

There were photos of the tour, of exhibits and what had interested or bored different members of their group. London had dragged her feet through the historical findings, unless there was gold, then she exclaimed "shiny!" or made other comments about the state of the artefacts; she shied away from the dinosaurs; she'd knocked over a coat of arms and, to cover up her graceless accident, promptly proclaimed that she would take it and asked how much it cost; Zack had been particularly fascinated with some of the dinosaur skeletons, but his interest had truly been piqued when they'd examined some of the artefacts recovered from the Middle Ages.

So many memories, he smiled as he looked at all of those captured moments. Yet, he found himself getting to the end and having the strangest feeling that there were photos missing.

There was the one of Zack gripping his head, having eaten his ice-cream too fast and gotten brain freeze; or, in the following moment, his older brother giving the camera a rather ugly look, to which Bailey had informed the whole group deserved such a caption as, "There's truly a face only a Momma would like—if it's because she's grounded you!" They had all had a good laugh at Zack's expense when the camera was passed around, and even afterward when Bailey had been picking out pictures to develop.

There was also the absence of one where Zack had gotten his sleeve inadvertently caught on a display of ancient plaited chains and had pulled them right off the wall. The sheepish, apologetic look on his face had been priceless as the ancient artefacts dangled from his arm.

Cody remembered Bailey picking these pictures despite Zack's protests, to which he had promptly promised that he'd just have to make sure they disappeared.

With a shake of his head, Cody knew exactly what had happened to the ones he realised were missing—and wondered how many more he had forgotten about. Deciding that his brother really wasn't allowed to make off with their prints, he got up to raid Zack's room in search of the stolen pictures.

Figuring that his twin was in the Aqua Lounge, probably playing a video game, he would just sneak into his brother's room and find the missing photos to take to Bailey. He slipped into the room across the hall, but to his horror he discovered that it was most painfully _not_ empty.

The envelope of captured memories slipped from suddenly lax hands, spilling its contents across the floor. Their shiny reflections plastered happy smiles and bright colours upon a beaten surface, but it mattered little.

"Oh my god, Zack, what did you _do_?"

"_Memory is a way of holding onto the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose." -The Wonder Years_

-0-

**Author's Note:** So, Zack's been found out...or, if not, then what _did _he do? I think we all know, yes, but what is Cody's reaction, what will the coming confrontation bring, what will happen? We shall see you all again next week, unless the writing goes exceptionally well and we make an exception and post sooner. However, if not, you can count on next week! Thank you all for reading and we look forward to continuing this journey with all of you! We welcome any thoughts you feel worth sharing or you feel like taking the time to, but by no means feel like they won't be appreciated!  
><strong>Also<strong>, if I have any discrepancies (particularly with my zoo and museum mentions—I have never been to either, so I am at a clueless loss there, I am afraid), I would appreciate hearing your comments, or answering any other questions that might have arisen if there is such need.


	3. Picture Perfection Has Faded Away

Falling Through the Cracks  
>by <strong>Aimme<strong>,  
>with touches by <strong>My Note Book<strong>

**Summary: **His mask was flawless. His walls were perfectly structured. Protection and cautionary containment at its finest. Even a perfect pretend held fractures, though, and no matter how strong his glue, under the right circumstances, glue cracked and had to be gutted and filled in again.

**Author's Notes:** Please see the first chapter for all thorough disclaimers, warnings, and notations made by the author(s).  
>Once again, I (<strong>Aimme<strong>) will now say that this chapter is also a change of pace...or form, rather. Definitely a change of form from the last two chapters. **My Note Book** and I simply write the story the way it comes to us, and there is little more we can do, because resistance usually turns out to be detrimental in large amounts: we end up not writing anything. Just have to go with it, aye? It is shorter than the other two, we know, but still hopefully just as enjoyable. We hope you like it for what it is, nonetheless, and stick this out to hear the story!  
><strong>Additionally<strong>, I (**Aimme**), and also on behalf of **My Note Book**, would like to thank our anonymous reviewers, BlackKeys96, FTC, and Smile-I'mTheEndOfAllYouSee, for taking the time to leave us those awesome reviews! We hope that you all enjoy this third chapter as much as you did the first two, and that you continue to enjoy what's coming.  
>Also, a <strong>huge shout-out thank you<strong> to **BlackKeys96** for that song suggestion (_I'm Not Alright_ by Sanctus Real)! Neither **My Note Book** nor I had ever heard that song, but now it is on our favourites! You are right, it is very fitting for Zack. And I am with you on liking Cody reliving the memories! I love the observance of the things that people treasure...and that was definitely a glimpse of what Cody treasures!  
>If there are any questions about updating, see the note at the end. Now that this author's note is nearly as long as the chapter, I will stop...<p>

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Chapter Three - Picture Perfection Has Faded Away

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_The picture perfection has faded away  
>Say goodbye to illusion, say hello to reality's way<br>If only I could find the air that so alludes me  
>To open up or hide, to tell you or simply lie<br>To keep on acting like I've got my life in line  
>When I know it's not worth it to save me<em>

I saw red. I saw pain. I saw a nightmare, awake.

I saw blood running in many rivulets down to the elbow of the arm clutched in red-covered hands and held before a dark T with an even darker stain on the front.

My heart stopped, terror and horror freezing my thoughts and seizing my emotions.

My brother's eyes, empty, dull and listless, had locked on mine, sluggish shock peaking out through the creases of a weary, impassive face, but the jagged lines drawn in blood were bright and fresh and wet, and surely he was not oblivious of that. He was rooted, though, and simply stared with a shell-shocked, blank look at his brother in the doorway, caught red-handed and aware of it but indifferent, as if it hadn't quite moved him yet.

My feet unfroze, my heart leaping into my throat even as I launched himself all the way across the room at my twin, grabbing hold of him and dragging him into the bathroom—a destination my brother seemed to have been making his own flight for before he had been rooted by his sudden intruder.

Zack let himself be pulled along the last few feet to the sink, still saying nothing, still barely reacting.

A washcloth was hastily doused with a shaking hand, clear liquid, cool and rushing, gushing from the faucet, but the other trembling hand held flesh and blood, the vital liquid hot and deep crimson, dark and bubbling slowly and sluggishly out of damage, trickling down its own paths where it did not belong.

Terror ate at me, but Zack remained silent. Heat flooded my wide eyes, swirling the blood so that it might as well have been everywhere, and violently shaking hands pressed cold to hot upon flesh that was marred, but there was no flinch or sound from the one beside me.

"You could have _killed_ yourself!" I bit out harshly, fear and devastation choking me up.

"No, I couldn't have," a sharp, curt retort, almost derisive, almost exasperated, as if it was common knowledge and I was unlearned.

I shot my gaze up to his. He looked vaguely like he had been crying, which is unusual for my big brother (I have not seen him cry since before we were six, if even then, which means that I do not really remember seeing him do so, ever), but this cut was deep and no matter how tough he is, tears of pain would not be so easily dissuaded, so easily dispelled. He was pale and his eyes were tinged the slightest bit with red, but the impassiveness before me might be impressive if it wasn't so darn _terrifying_.

"It was an accident, Cody," Zack explained. I stared at him and he bristled; his eyes narrowing as he reiterated, "It was an _accident_," emphasizing with a harsh note to his tone.

An _accident? _I wanted to believe him, I really, really did; I wanted to believe him because he's my brother and he can convince me of anything. I was too scared stiff, though, and my mind too grief-stricken to know what was what with my brother at the moment. All I knew, however, was that I wanted to believe him, because the other option was too colossally petrifying and devastating.

I dropped my head, panic-stricken haste in my movements as I returned my attention to the bloody mess in my hands. Hastily wrapping a hand towel around his arm, I tried to stem the lazy flow of the life-giving liquid which was seeping away. As I squeezed our temporary tourniquet to the damage stealing such vitality from my brother, I looked up once more at my twin and noted that for all of his blank expression and collected tone, his body betrayed him for he trembled the slightest bit and his skin was clammy.

I swiped a hand across my face, the trickling dampness on my cheeks, and Zack twitched uncomfortably. "Mind letting up?" he mumbled, his shifty gaze darting around. He referred to the iron grip I had on him, holding the towel to the cut four inches above his left wrist.

"Yes, I do mind," I bit back. "We have to stop the bleeding, you idiot!" Out of the corner of my eye, an instantaneous crease flashing across his face caught my attention, and in the corner of my mind, I pondered that. But my gaze had instantly flicked up to his face, and there was no such look, so my peripheral must have been seeing a flinch when I was simply imagining things.

"We're going to the infirmary _right now_, Zackary!" I caught his face paling a little more as I gripped his wounded arm with both hands and turned, but he remained silent and did not protest as I dragged him from the bathroom.

I found it strange that Zack didn't struggle much—and by struggle much, I mean nothing more than the occasional misstep and feet getting left behind as I dragged him along, for he seemed a little lethargic, perhaps muddled even, and the dearth of reaction kept my heart racing. He didn't put up any fight as I pulled him behind me towards the infirmary, and this was weird because I know that he hates visiting nurses, doctors, and anybody with a needle—he hates it a lot, quite a lot.

I could hear his ragged breathing, and my desperation cemented all the more. He didn't protest or make a sound, only tried to keep himself upright and keep his lagging feet keeping up with my hurried ones as I tugged him so quickly down the halls. I dragged him onward, blood-splattered and bleeding, silent, and uncharacteristically unresponsive and detached.

_I've been falling through the cracks,  
>Shooting down myself, facing the facts,<br>I'll never be worth the cost of this  
>My secrets are my life, my life my only breath<br>And I will face down the hollow pit in my chest  
>I could never be priceless<em>

_I've been falling through the cracks_  
><em>Falling through the cracks<em>

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**Author's Note:** So Cody knows, but is still fooled—or too terrified to think otherwise. Zack's exceptionally good at his ruse, and he seems particularly good at pulling a fast one over on Cody in regards to what's the real deal with Zack and what's not. Will Cody ever find out? Will Zack ever heal? Will their friends ever know anything? Nobody knows! Well...maybe... I guess we shall see you all again next week and find out what does or does not happen, unless the writing goes exceptionally well and we make an exception and post sooner. However, if not, you can count on next week!  
><strong>Thank you<strong> all for reading and we continue to look forward to this journey taken with all of you! We welcome any thoughts you feel worth sharing or you feel like taking the time to, but by no means feel like they won't be appreciated!


	4. This Changed Everything

Falling Through the Cracks  
>by <strong>Aimme<strong>,  
>with touches by <strong>My Note Book<strong>

**Summary: **His mask was flawless. His walls were perfectly structured. Protection and cautionary containment at its finest. Even a perfect pretend held fractures, though, and no matter how strong his glue, under the right circumstances, glue cracked and had to be gutted and filled in again.

**Author's Notes:** Please see the first chapter for all thorough disclaimers, warnings, and notations made by the author(s).  
>Again, we know this chapter is short, but this story doesn't seem keen on long, long chunks for a chapter. The way it is flowing and the natural stops are what we have to go with—if it says there is to be a chapter break, who are we, merely the authors, to argue?<br>**Also**, there is a small chunk of narrative in the chapter that is put in italics and this is to denote a flashback, but it is so short, I felt it would be a little much to put "*Flashback*" markers before and after. I hope there is no confusion, but I won't know until/unless I get feedback about it. It should be obvious what is the flashback and what is emphasis and/or the denotation of thoughts. _I_ am not confused, but I don't mean because I am the author—when others have formatted in a similar fashion, it has not confused me. However, I can't tell how other people understand things, or if they will understand this or not... At least one can say you have been warned...  
>Oh, and before I forget, the <span>underline<span> on words in pieces of text that are in italics are to add specific emphasis to that word. So, in the flashback and in thoughts, since they are already in italics, we have added underlines to add the emphasis. Pretty simple, right? Hopefully it's not confusing...

**Additionally**, I (**Aimme**), and also on behalf of **My Note Book**, would like to send out a huge thank you to our anonymous reviewer, **BlackKeys96** (thanks for coming back for a third time!), you're awesome for your consistency! I don't know how you keep up with our updates, but it's amazing and we are honored! You are right, Cody _doesn't_ want to see what is right in front of him—it's too terrifying for his mind to address, and though he's an extremely rational and logical individual, his brain's on the fritz and he'd rather rationalize it with a scenario he can accept. Accepting that Zack's been cutting (whether just that time or longer) is too much for him, for his panic- and terror-stricken mind, and his (surely aching) heart. Zack's going to be feeling the effects of what he's done even more so here in a little bit... Thanks for taking the time to review, hope you enjoy this chapter, and furthermore, we are still so very much enjoying that song (_I'm Not Alright _by Sanctus Real)!

If there are any questions about updating, see the note at the end.

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Chapter Four - This Changed Everything

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"_Her pain was very apparent, the torment she was in." -Adrienne Barbeau_

Bailey was shell-shocked. She was shaken like timbres after a twister, weakened and threatening to topple at any moment. She simply could not believe what she was hearing, yet her heart raced and fear pounded adrenaline and ice through her veins. No blood warmed her skin, and she felt her mind freeze up.

Zack was _dying._

The concept bred terror in her brain and she could hardly think. The warmth of tears threatened behind her eyes. The idea of one of them dying seemed so foreign…so wrong. He was part of the group, and more than that he was her boyfriend's brother. Zack _couldn't _be dying! It was too horrible a proposition; it couldn't be!

"What do you mean, Woody?" she asked him, trying to keep her voice from trembling, but three words at the end of his explanation had turned her whole world upside down permanently after Cody's roommate had run up to her and that horrendous, fear-inducing expression upon his face had jarred the moorings of her world.

_Woody had rushed unheedingly by girls, staff, and even the loaded lunch table, brushing rudely past anyone in the way. "Bailey, Bailey, Bailey!" he repeated as he dashed up to her, breathing heavily and panic, horror, and devastation in his normally smiling and carefree expression._

_Her breath caught. "Woody, is everything all right?" She set her smoothie down upon the bar, where she had been awaiting the appearance of her boyfriend, not her boyfriend's roommate._

"_No!" he'd answered shakily. "I've got some bad news, Bailey." He was wild-eyed and hysterical. And the sheer horror in his expressive gaze was just enough to make these things scare Bailey. "I think there's something really wrong with Zack. I don't know how to say this! I think…I think Zack is __dying__, Bailey. Zack is dying."_

The moment kept replaying over and over again in her horror-frozen, panic-ravaged, pain-stricken mind like a broken record, wrecked by the pronunciation of five syllables, eleven letters, three words that had just darkened her sunny life enough to make her wish that this was just a dream. She wanted to have her ears checked and her head given a CAT scan just so she could hear that she had misheard Woody and/or that the last minute was a hallucination.

"I saw-I saw Cody pulling Zack through the halls, and Cody had some b-blood on his hands and Zack-Zack-that is, he had b- he had b-blood -a lot more blood- on his hands, too, and on part of his arm," Woody attempted to explain with an obvious and hindering tremor to his words, but he was shaken and his voice was choked up. "A big stain -probably blood too!- on the front of his shirt, Bailey, and he looked so deathly pale and-and-and—oh, it was awful! He seemed so weak and so tired and so barely there."

"Woody," Bailey stood up, trying to collect herself. "I…I'm sure he's going to be okay," she said, trying to keep the doubt out of her voice, trying to convince herself of this as well, trying to rationalize it all away in her mind with an explanation she could accept.

"I don't know, Bailey! Cody had a towel pressed to Zack's arm and he looked so upset, scared even. I even heard Cody say something about 'dying' and 'why' and Zack barely mumbled something about being sorry. Bailey, I'm really scared about Zack." He sniffed as tears began leaking down his face. "What scares me most, Bailey, is that they…" his voice dropped to a whisper, "they were headed for the…in…infirmary."

Bailey felt what little bit of her own blood she had had left in her face flee, but she doubted she was as pale as the vision Woody had seen. She had to keep her head, but she couldn't breed denial, and truth be told straight, she was scared and she felt terror and devastation eating away at her insides.

"Okay, okay," she said, trying to calm down and figure this out. "Okay, Woody, look." She held her hands out soothingly. "I-I will, that is…" she breathed deep, because she felt tears burning in her eyes and a knot of pain searing in her throat. She tried to soothe her own crazy emotions. "I'm going to the infirmary. I want to-well, that is, I-I need…I'm going to the infirmary, okay? Are you coming?"

Woody shook his head. "No, I…I should tell London," and before she could say anything, he took off.

Bailey wondered if he was rushing off to a convenient place to break down, though she supposed London needed to know as well. Was Zack dying? That would change everything.

Hands trembling as she left the Sky Deck, Bailey pulled out her cellphone and speed-dialled Cody, trying to breathe and calm herself down and get herself together. The phone, however, rang and rang, and then went to voicemail. She pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at it for a moment as if it had betrayed her, panic eating away at her heart. Closing her cellphone, she quickened her pace, a choking, burning, terrified pain twisting inside of her.

"Bails, don't worry," she said aloud, trying to soothe herself. "I'm sure everything's alright. If something's wrong with Zack, then…well, Woody said Cody's with Zack, and I'm sure he'll be fine." She was trying to convince herself, but she was having no luck; the knot that had been growing in her stomach since she saw the look on Woody's face only got bigger.

_What if Zack really is dying? _Her mind questioned.

_He would have told us,_ she rationed.

_Knowing Zack? No, he would not; he would have said nothing like he always does, because you just __know__ that when it comes to things like this, he never does._ The doubt in her heart grew.

_Zack would have told Cody! And Cody would have told us…_

_And what if Zack __didn't__ tell Cody?_

She paused, stopped at that. What if he hadn't told his twin and Cody only just now found out himself about this? What if Zack had something serious, like leukaemia, and Cody only knew now because he had found his brother bleeding? A really bad case? Most people die from that. What if Zack were the next casualty?

A single tear fell down Bailey's face. "Oh, no," she said out loud, and with that pronouncement lingering in the air, she took off running down the halls towards the infirmary.

Oh sweet corn on the cob, this changed _everything. _Zack was _dying_.

"_Now it seems to me that love of some kind is the only possible explanation of the extraordinary amount of suffering that there is in the world." -Oscar Wilde_

-0-

**Author's Note: **Oh no! -ducks and runs very, very fast for cover- Mercy! -peeks out cautiously- Updates are weekly, and chapter five will be up next Wednesday evening. What do you suppose is going to happen? What about our favourite brothers? What about Bailey? What about London, Woody, Mr. Moseby (is that spelling correct?)? Is any of this relevant? Are any of these questions appropriate or relevant, too? What will become of our favourite twins? What does Bailey know, whether concretely or in suspicion? Everybody is on the fritz, and I think it's contagious...Do you suppose that can effect boats, too? Why am I asking these questions? Let's hear from our readers! We welcome any thoughts you feel worth sharing or you feel like taking the time to, but by no means feel like they won't be appreciated! **  
><strong>  
><strong>Thank you<strong> all for reading and we continue to look forward to this journey taken with all of you!**  
><strong>


	5. Just In Time To See Me Messed Up

Falling Through the Cracks  
>by <strong>Aimme<strong>,  
>with touches by <strong>My Note Book<strong>

**Summary:** His mask was flawless. His walls were perfectly structured. Protection and cautionary containment at its finest. Even a perfect pretend held fractures, though, and no matter how strong his glue, under the right circumstances, glue cracked and had to be gutted and filled in again. **  
><strong>

**Author's Notes:** Please see the first chapter for all thorough disclaimers, warnings, and notations made by the author(s).

Almost as if to make up for our last two chapters, this one is rather long. Our longest to date, and possibly the most revealing, outside of chapter one. We finally receive a time line, too. More explanations in here, and yes, of course, there will still be more to come. **Please note**: as stated in the last chapter, if a section of narrative is in italics, then emphasis on any words is shown by use of the underline. Furthermore, there is a part where the narrative is in italics, but some lines are not and there are still underlines under some words—since it is all in the same section, you'll understand why it was done that way. If not, I can field questions about it, but I sincerely hope it is self-explanatory when you are in the midst of reading it.

**Tiger002**, I have a note for you at the end, amidst my rather long author's notation/commentary. I could not say any of the other stuff up here, though, so everything's at the end of the chapter, and your note is amidst it all. I put your name in bold, so you can just look for that if you want to skip everything else.

**[Chapter] Disclaimer:** The lyrics used in the middle section (you'll know what I'm talking about when you get there) belong to the band, Simple Plan. I make no claims to them.

-0-

Chapter Five - Just In Time to See Me Mess(ed) Up

-0-

_Oh, if only I could find someone  
>To forgive me for the things I've done<br>You know harsh sobs burn from the inside up  
>You'll get here just in time to see me mess up<em>

It was hard to breathe. The air was stifling and his chest too tight, too hot. Whatever resided deep in the cavity inside of him burned fiercely, and his throat felt raw and sore. Everything seemed to ache.

In a detached sort of way, he worried and cared about what had happened, but indifference had held true and he had not returned as yet. He wore his mask again, but he had not had a chance to gather himself completely still after the fractures had split and splintered once more, the glue not quite finished hardening through once again.

He was the definition and personification of numb, for, as his brother -his clueless, dear, dratted, terrified brother- dragged him down the hallway, his sluggish mind shied dully away from reality while also at the same time letting none of the facts escape him.

He'd been caught, true.

He'd also successfully pulled his mask back on before he'd been prepared to, before his guise was quite ready to be put to use once more, but he had made the broken pieces hold their mould despite the odds stacked against the fractures.

He was scattered and, truthfully, beneath, behind, and beyond his numbness, he was terrified. He felt the familiar grasp, cold and ruthless and tight, slithering towards his lungs as a panic attack began to stir coyly and mercilessly, seeking to set in. A sharp, searing pain sliced through his right temple, but he silenced the hiss, keeping it mute as always, and fought against the irregular breathing pattern itching to take over his air. The palms of his hands, already a touch clammy, began to tingle with pins and needles.

He'd come so close to being found out completely, so close to his brother diving headlong past his faltered walls and seeing depths he was not allowed access to. He couldn't let his twin in there; it was unthinkable. He clenched his sweaty right hand at his side, trying to alleviate the prickling symptom of the pressing panic attack he fought so hard to prevent and preempt—anxiety made his emotions swirl unpredictably behind his numb veneer and impeccable mask; the way he was feeling because of his close call and his close proximity to merely one catalyst of his state.

_-  
>*Flashback*<em>

_Are you sick of everyone around  
>With their big fake smiles and stupid lies<br>While deep inside you're bleeding?  
>No, you don't know what it's like<br>When nothing feels alright  
>No, you don't know what it's like<br>To be like me_

_Rubbing my hands together briskly, I tried to release some of my restless mind as I walked energetically down the hall towards the Aqua Lounge. I knew my brother would be there, no doubt with a textbook at hand, and I had every intention of distracting him from that._

_After the twister in Kettlecorn and Mr. Tipton agreed to let the Picketts keep their farm, I had had to return to the ship with Mr. Moseby for school, but Ms. T had let Bailey and Cody remain to help clean up some of the destruction left, on account of them having perfect grades and being ahead in the curriculum (ha! How's that for a big word, huh?). They'd been flown back on London's dime (she's not always as selfish as everyone believes), and had only just returned. Yesterday. Evening. Cody'd been gone for a week, and made plans to spend all day today with his girlfriend. I felt like bugging him._

_I inclined my head to a passer-by -Jocelyn, from work- as I turned a corner and neared the open doors of the Aqua Lounge._

"_Bails, if he doesn't pick up his attitude, he's never going to go anywhere," I overheard Cody say, making me pause, hidden beyond and several steps from the doorframe. "I mean, he still doesn't have any idea what he's doing next that will actually make any kind of difference here."_

_I back-pedalled a few feet further before freezing completely. Contrary to fooled opinion, I'm not an idiot. It didn't take much for me to know who he was talking about, though perhaps it helps (which is a relative term) being his twin._

"_I worry about him."_

No, you don't. Don't lie to make yourself look better.

"_I really do believe he's going to end up all alone after he's dated every woman on the planet, except for the ones who are smart like you, Bails."_

_The flattery did little more than make Bailey temporarily giggle, but I wasn't interested in their adulation (another biggish word—Ms. T would be so proud). I dropped my head lower, feet frozen to the floor, ears listening to the private conversation._

"_He's going to find himself at the end of his rope…"_

I already am.

"…_with nothing of worth to show for it."_

Not even myself.

"_Cody, Zack's…"_

_My heart skipped a beat._

"…_byzantine—you know, a twinge dense, I think; and he has a long way to go, but I don't think that means he's going nowhere—just perhaps not any place we're prepared to see him head."_

"_And by that, you mean prison."_

"_I didn't say that, Cody."_

Didn't have to, Kansas. The art of implication isn't something you're lost on and the power of indirect suggestion isn't a foreign concept to you.

_I swallowed hard, wishing to be far away, very, very far away. _

"_He makes me so mad sometimes… And I really do wonder why he's here."_

You and I both, pal.

"_I don't want to see him fail."_

Yes, you do.

"_And I'd hate to see him broken and nowhere in a few years."_

Already am.

"_Sweetie, he just has a long way to go and I'm sure he'll get there someday… hopefully sooner than we think he will," Bailey placated, but I didn't feel very reassured myself._

"_Yeah, hopefully. Ugh, why does he have to make things so complicated and difficult? I mean, if you were to look up the definition of those words it would say 'Zack.'"_

_I swallowed difficultly again, catching a sharp breath. Sure, I'd always known he felt and thought this way, but I just never expected to be right there when he's saying it—granted, I wasn't supposed to be right there and he didn't __know__ I was right there, but that only made it __worse__: it's a different matter entirely. I know I deserve it anyway, though._

"_Honey, I know it's hard right now, but we'll just have to trust that he'll make something of himself sometime, someday, and really just help him where he is now, if we can."_

I don't want your help, nor do I need it, so save your time.

"_I know…I just question myself if it is even worth it. I get so tired of him."_

I knew it.

"_Why does he have to act the way he does?"_

Sorry for being who I have to be.

"_I'd hate to think he's useless, but…"_

_That was it; I couldn't take anymore. My chest was not working the way it should, making it very hard to breathe, and the tightness therein had been building up for days. I needed to get away, to get out; I needed release._

_I nearly back-pedalled again, prepared to leave, but before I could do so, Cody and Bailey exited the Lounge and I had to act unaware and clueless, as if I had only just arrived. My heart smote, twisting, burning, aching inside the cavity of my chest, but I couldn't let on._

"_Zack!" Cody exclaimed as they ran into me and we all pulled up short._

_Despite the discussion I had been a secret witness of, a part of my heart breathed a sigh of relief I didn't want to readily acknowledge. I knew that of the two of us, I suffered the greater from separation anxiety, though I could never tell my brother this—Cody wouldn't care; and truth be told, I hadn't quite gotten over the fear I'd felt when we heard that a tornado had hit Kettlecorn and I couldn't get a hold of him nor could I even begin to make an educated guess at his welfare being of a positive nature. I'd seen him briefly last night when he'd returned, but all the same, I still fought the after-effects of the past week to week and a half. It still did me well to see him safe yet._

_Why couldn't I say that his concern for me was that far-reaching?_

"_Hey, Zack." Bailey said casually, "What's new?"_

"_My shirt." I answered, truly with flippancy, but to them, seriously. Cody rolled his eyes, his half-grin revealing straight, pearl whites._

"_And-and it's a very nice shirt," Bailey stuttered, trying to be polite, a smile plastered across her expression. "It looks great on you. Where did you buy it?"_

"_I know it does; why else would I have bought it? Do you think that the Awesome Zack -that's me- would get any less?" I bragged, smirking haughtily. Then I turned sympathetic, "But, Bailey, though I appreciate the obvious compliment, you already passed up your chance to take a crack at the Zack. I don't think it's appropriate now, especially in front of your boyfriend…"_

_I noted that Cody's eyes narrowed at my words, but I wasn't worried. I wasn't afraid of anything he could do to me about it, if he got it in mind to; he'd done the most damage he could ever do to me, and he'd done it already, and it most certainly hadn't been from his fists nor with them._

_My smug smirk grew, my actions a charade tailored for them and pretty much everyone else on the planet Earth._

"_So, what have you been doing?" I asked casually._

"_Talking," Bailey waved offhandedly._

"_Oh, about good things, I hope," I forced out without a hint of any problem communicated to them._

"_Of course," Cody answered, straight-faced._

_All I wanted to do was simply stare at him. However, I didn't slip up, nor did I do so easily, and I most certainly never let on—never let on to what's what, never let on about what's really in my head, inside of me, on my mind, never let on that there's so much more with me. I never let on._

"_Excellent," I grinned, for me, it was forced, for them, it was natural. I know, because I'd perfected this. I had it down pat. I wasn't so easily caught; I wasn't so easily read, so easily known. I'd gotten excellent, myself, at being who I __have__ to be. "Because if you weren't, I'd-"_

"_Zack, we've got to go. We have lunch plans," Cody interrupted._

"_Of course," I pronounced with a sarcastic grin shot at them, "Wouldn't want to keep you from your study of lameness and perfecting the exact art of eating crème fraîche and edible fungi—how exciting!" I snarkily mocked._

"_Whatever," Cody rolled his eyes, grabbing Bailey's arm. "Let's go, Bails."_

"_Bye, Zack," Bailey waved vaguely, her words more obligatory than sincere._

_I nodded with a careless, carefree smile after them, but the moment they were gone, that upward twist dropped like the heavy weight it was, a mound of rocks crashing down on my shoulders. The heat searing my chest took my breath away, but I had to force casualness until I could get to the one place I could reveal I was not casual but rather that I am a casualty._

_I dropped my gaze to my feet, scuffing one foot across the floor to prove that they were no longer frozen to the traditional print of the carpet._

"_Hey, Zack!" Woody's voice startled me, but I didn't let it show. _

"_Hi, Woodchuck," I said with less enthusiasm than I hoped he picked up on. The blazing pain in the depth inside was becoming too much to bear. "Whatcha need?"_

"_I'm bored! Want to hang for a few hours?"_

_I needed to get away, and I needed to get away quickly. "Oh, well," I hedged, "I'm not feeling so hot, plus I've got some homework to do, so…" I trailed off, seeing the incredulous look on his face, but before I could question him about it, he burst out his own thoughts._

"_Are you being serious?"_

_Covering. "Yeah, Woodmite. Gots to go bug Cody to get it done, 'cause he's been gone all week and I've had to do it. I deserve a break, but if I don't hassle him first, I'll get nothing."_

"_Ah, daaang it," he sighed. Bingo. Success. "Well, I think I saw him and Bailey heading towards the Sky Deck for lunch. In fact, they were coming from here, why didn't…"_

_Whoops. "I did, and he brushed me off," I flashed a grin. "Now, I've got to get even. That's what I meant by hassle."_

"_Ah!" He returned the grin, nodding knowingly. "Got it. Well," he shrugged, "I'd help, but I really don't want to be dragged into it. Cody knows where I sleep!"_

"_Coward," I joshed._

"_Cody's vicious, I tell you!" Woody defended, with a small grin._

_Hm. Sounds familiar._

"_Well, good luck! See ya later, Zack!"_

"_Sure thing, pal." I am still amazed how easily I can convince people of bogus sincerity, of how I can so efficiently -almost effortlessly- fool them -all of them- with my ruse._

_As soon as he was out of sight, with heart roaring painfully in my tightening chest, I turned to return to my cabin, specifically to my safe, hiding place therein, kept between four walls and a curtain of hanging clothes, where all of my truth lay suspended and revealed to no prying eyes._

_No one ever lied straight to your face  
>And no one ever stabbed you in the back<br>You might think I'm happy, but I'm not gonna be okay..._

_*End Flashback*  
><em>-_  
><em>

It still hurt to think of it, in a deep, aching, always bleeding way; however, where the pressure had been hot and strong and completely depleting, now he had meted out release. He had not recovered his centre yet, for his brother had interrupted his salvaging before he had reset his walls and safety nets. While he had recovered enough to hide away, he had not, however, gained enough of his stability to overcome the moment and completely find his level head.

He knew, though, deep in that burning and wasting away heart of his, that he deserved the pain. The horrible things he had done were too many to count, and he had coming to him all that they manifested in his life and faltering core. _'I need the pain to feel alive,'_ he told himself and kept his head and emboldened his stumbling and weary spirit, finding a way to cope sufficiently just to get by long enough to move closer to his hope for an eventuality he knew was a long distance off.

_'Otherwise, what else is making me alive? I bleed, but at least I know I'm alive. And if there's life, perhaps there's eventually something worth it all…'_ It was awful, he knew, but it was all he was stuck with, his plight, his only recourse, his only lot. He was here, so he figured he'd find a way to get through.

He may not have possessed a wealth of book-smarts or textbook knowledge to make a Harvard graduate blush, but he knew many things—such as: there was nothing he could do to fix the things he'd done or that pain was the only fixture he deserved for this life.

As he was hustled along, he stumbled slightly in a small misstep (his brother was dragging him rather forcefully and briskly down the hall; it was enough just to keep up with the thoughts in his head, much less his brother's pace), and this caused Cody to look back at him and stop walking. His heart, pounding and racing hard and loud in his chest, gave an extra lurch at the expression his brother turned on him.

"You, you…" his twin sputtered. "What happened?" Cody's eyes narrowed, yet concern was in his voice.

He wondered detachedly if his brother could hear his heart, because it was hammering in his ears. He kept his face impassive and attempted to keep his emotions out of his voice as he answered, "It was an accident."

"Yeah, you already said that," this time, his brother's voice was cutting. "What _happened_?" he pressed once more as they slowly started walking down the hall again, the younger of the two never once having let go of his twin's bloody arm.

Struggling to find a workable lie, he thought of some weird, off-the-wall explanations, but none, of course, would his brother believe. No matter how much he could convince him of, this time was different.

_'A paper cut?'_ Obviously, no. Lame. _'A knife slipped?' _Seeing as there was a knife in that excuse, it was _too _close to the truth and thus too risky. _'Moved my arm across the desk in my cabin wrong—there's a rough edge?'_ Not good enough, but perhaps there was something there, somewhere, but what? _'Playing the guitar too hard?' _Say what?

His mind raced for something to say, grasping at anything that he could pull off. _'Come on, you dolt, think!'_ An idea flashed a light on in his mind. Then he had it.

Looking his brother dead in the eye, he effortlessly pulled a lie out of thin air and made it part of the reality they all knew and held for his life. "There's a nail in my closet, pulled loose awhile ago and I just haven't gotten around to fixing it_—_I, uh, tripped," he winced, "and caught my arm on it, scraping it pretty deep, as you can see. I was on my way to clean up when _you_ came in without knocking," he spoke the last sentence in a nasty tone, the barb shot as part of the lay of his protection.

He sensed himself quickly robbed of his defence when he felt his body tremble noticeably, due to the recent adrenaline rush, which had worn off, and the swash of his emotions as they washed over him and then the turmoil awash in him in the wake of the aftermath. The panic attack he'd been fighting hard against took its toll as well, and there was the issue posed by having his brother barge in before he'd been prepared to face any of them again with the one they knew so well_—_this was no easy matter to contend with either.

It bothered him that his stoicism could be betrayed by one tell, and one he couldn't control at that. While he acted strong, gave the world the mask they so gladly accepted, the tremors running through his body had him betraying his own weakness. It didn't matter that that _was_ the truth_—_he only acts, for the truth was that he _is_ weak, and he hates himself for it.

His face, however, remained solid and intact. Indifferent, cool, defended. His mask was a flawless one, the picture he painted for them all one they accepted without a second thought_—_he was a self-inflicted circus clown, a charade which the world applauded, in that they believed it to be real, flesh and blood and entirely true all the way through.

Carefully scrutinizing his brother's face, he tried to read his twin's thoughts by his expression; therein he found some doubt, as if Cody wasn't sure if he should accept the statement his brother averred so solidly or test its metal to reveal its flaws, but the older twin knew he had him. The younger believed every word, because he was afraid to believe otherwise.

Part of him wanted to tell his twin_—_no. No, he didn't. Cody wouldn't care anyway.

His heart lurched painfully against the confines of his chest, heaving a keen sob that scalded the cavity of his depths all the way up to the bile rising in his throat. It didn't matter, and Zack Martin wouldn't let it show.

_Just in time to see me messed up  
>Harsh sobs burn from the inside up<br>I've been falling through the cracks  
>Falling through the cracks<em>

-0-

**Author's Note:** What is it part of Zack wanted to tell Cody, before he quashed that desire and reminded himself that he did not? Did anything particularly pop out at you? I, personally, liked some of the parts about Cody making plans to spend time with Bailey and Zack's way of addressing it with just a "I felt like bugging him"; for me, that says a lot—a lot, a lot. What do you think it says? I guess we'll see what struck others and what those thoughts were. Also, Cody's claims about Zack eventually ending up all alone in a handful of years "after he's dated every woman on the planet" are very telling—what do you suppose that means? [No, we have not contradicted the canon of the show (and this is _before_ Graduation), so give it another shot.] Furthermore, did anyone catch the "Cody's vicious" reference? What will become of the twins now? Will anything ever get resolved? Do you think this story could possibly gear up for a happy ending? I don't know—you tell me! Your turn!

...in a minute, that is, after I add these extra notations—I suppose, on a DVD, this would be somewhat akin to the author's commentary...

Questions that may arise from the chapter, but you don't have to read over (or you might want to jot down your own thoughts first before reading them):

_1. If Zack knew Cody was spending the day with Bailey, why did he first mention that he suspected Cody was in the Aqua Lounge with a textbook instead?_ Simple answer, really, and based on his unintentional eavesdropping and how caught off guard he'd been to walk in on their conversation—the answer is that he didn't think Cody and Bailey were hanging out together _yet_. [No, he wasn't calling Bailey a textbook.]

_2. Why did Zack [silently] call Bailey "Kansas" in the flashback?_ Because we (**My Note Book** and I) think that Zack has pet names for Bailey that he calls her inside of his head. No, they're nothing more than brother-sister affectionate nicknames, but based on his character, I don't think he'd let on so obviously that he considers Bailey as his little sister (and, you know, one day she will be...).

_3. If Cody and Bailey leave the Aqua Lounge together for lunch, why, in chapter 2, is Cody alone and Bailey is with London? _London, obviously, interrupted their date and dragged Bailey away, so Cody went to his room to occupy his time whilst waiting for London to finish with the resolving of her "wardrobe problems" which she had borrowed Bailey to help do.

_4. What did you mean in the first part of the chapter, when you spoke of Zack's "close proximity to merely one catalyst of his state"? _I address this question because I worried that the narrative there might not entirely be understood. Yes, it meant Cody and Bailey had driven him this time to how he was currently, as seen in the flashback, but it did not only mean that. Cody was still merely one catalyst, and Bailey was not the only other one, for both are not the only catalysts of Zack's state _overall_ (very keyword, my readers)—others he knows, who make similar slams to him, his intelligence, who he is, etc, etc, etc. Episodes such as _Trouble in Tokyo, Double-Crossed, _or _London's Apprentice _(there are plenty more in _both_ series, though!) might give you an idea of some of the other people we, they, know who have made comments—even if he wasn't always around to hear them; you'll still get an idea of this, though.

Also, a shout-out goes to **My Note Book**, once again, because the scene in the flashback, specifically, when Cody and Bailey were talking and Zack's thoughts were offsetting their words, was product of her writing. She gave the structure to work from, embellish and expand, and while I did a lot of adding at one juncture, a little rearranging here, and in some cases, rewording there, the gist and crux of the scene are thanks to her. Some of the wording is still exact, even, because, actually, some of the back and forth, I did not have to change at all. In fact, I think I only added a few extra lines to some of Bailey's answers and tweaked Cody's statements for certain reasons, gave some more structure to the scene or strengthened what was already there, and wrote other parts of the flashback instead. That was an awesome scene to work on with you, **My Note Book**! Kudos on adding a major dose of angst (when I first read your beginning thoughts on it, it made _my_ heart jerk in sympathy and sadness) and thanks for helping me give insight into Zack's character to our lovely readers.

**Tiger002**, now that this chapter has been posted, I can tell you some things I have had to avoid mentioning. **My Note Book **and I found it cool, last week when we were discussing chapter 3 before we moved on to discussions of chapter 4, that you asked if we would switch PoVs and if we would see one from Zack's point of view. **My Note Book** and I decided to not say anything, because we had had this chapter written for awhile and thought it interesting that you should ask after that; and also that you asked if we would see something from one of their other friends and then we posted a chapter about Bailey—but so far, we have not written anything in second person. It's an interesting thought, though. I still have to stick by our oft-repeated phrase, "We shall see!" And remember our discussions about the relationship between the brothers? Yeah, this chapter is a major reflection of how the show has handled that—did you catch that? Also, this was the chapter I mentioned that might bring some understanding to the "crease" in chapter 3—re-reading chapter 1 might also help and then take a look at that scene in chapter 3. If not, or you don't want to just yet, we can let it lie and we can address it again at the end of the story—or I can be a bit more specific about why chapter 1 might help.

Vocabulary:

byzantine - (1) **very complex**: _extremely complex or intricate_; (2) **devious**: _marked by deviousness or scheming_; (3) **Zackary (T.)* Martin**: _according to fanfiction author, Aimme, Zackary (T.)* Martin represents the personification and definition of byzantine_ [Early-21st century. Byzantine]

adulation - **excessively admiring behaviour**: _excessive flattery or admiration_  
><strong><br>**crème fraîche - **French sour cream**: _a thickened French sour cream, used in cooking or served with other foods_**

averred - _past and past participle of_** aver **— aver - (1) **assert confidently**: _to assert something confidently_; (2) **allege**: _to state or allege that something is true_

And perhaps everyone should know that Bailey was actually using "dense" in the meaning of its (according to my dictionary) fourth definition— (4) **hard to penetrate intellectually**: _so complex and intricate that it is difficult to assimilate and understand_

* **My Note Book** and I jokingly claim that Thomas is Zack's middle name, in honour of actor Dylan Sprouse...plus, it doesn't have such a bad ring to it. I'm sure their mom could see screaming "ZACKARY THOMAS MARTIN!" at the top of her lungs if she had to and decided it would be alright to name him that. I don't know if that will actually end up _in _the story, as reference to it was used just as a joke here. Smile.

** I do not know if you actually eat crème fraîche with edible fungi—but if so, it seems like a Cody and Bailey thing to do—and if you don't, I'm not sure Zack would even entirely know the finer arts of culinary consumption (what goes together, what does not), much less a foreign addition to one's diet. However, it seems a plausible claim for him to make of their lunch date, because he's mocking their...nerdiness? Yes, let's go with that. And if one may eat crème fraîche with whatever one prefers (because I know details are determined also by preference and not strictly norm—even culinary norm), then it seems a meal Cody and Bailey might actually eat.

The narrative that reads "...before he'd been prepared to face any of them again with the one they knew so well" is actually one of my favourite lines from here. It alludes, in simpler, more straightforward terms, to this: "he was not prepared to face any of them again with the face they knew so well," and insinuates that they don't know the real him. Or, at least, that's what I get. What'd you get?

Another favourite line is this one, "He'd come so close to being found out completely, so close to his brother diving headlong past his faltered walls and seeing depths he was not allowed access to." And also the one about "...the way he was feeling because of his close call and his close proximity to merely one catalyst of his state." To name a few, that is... because, you see, I really, really loved this chapter. And I have so _many_ favourite lines. What about you? Any favourites?

Oh, plus, I love Zack's sarcasm in his head about his own intelligence in regards to "Ms. T" and school. I just thought I'd give a few of my own thoughts, since I'm about to ask for yours...

I know I've said this every time, but I mean it—we welcome any thoughts you feel worth sharing or you feel like taking the time to, but by no means feel like they won't be appreciated! **  
><strong>  
><strong>Thank you<strong> all for reading and we continue to look forward to this journey taken with all of you! We hope to see you all again next week (updates are on Wednesday evenings)!**  
><strong>


	6. What's In A Name?

Falling Through the Cracks  
>by <strong>Aimme<strong>,  
>with touches by <strong>My Note Book<strong>

**Summary:** His mask was flawless. His walls were perfectly structured. Protection and cautionary containment at its finest. Even a perfect pretend held fractures, though, and no matter how strong his glue, under the right circumstances, glue cracked and had to be gutted and filled in again. **  
><strong>

**Author's Notes:** Please see the first chapter for all thorough disclaimers, warnings, and notations made by the author(s).

I forgot last chapter to reply to **BlackKeys96**'s review for chapter 4! Sorry about that! I got everything else of that ridiculously long author's note written down and forgot to add a reply to your review! I will do so now by saying this: I am glad you enjoyed and were moved by a glimpse of the thoughts and feelings of Zack's friends. When it comes right down to it, I think they really care about him. And I think you are right, Zack's going to need them—he already _does _need them, probably! And I cannot blame Woody at all for jumping to conclusions, but out of them all, it definitely seemed like a very Woody-thing to do. Now, for your review of chapter 5: I am glad you liked getting to see what drove Zack to do what he did this time. It's kind of scary how he can throw up his defences and lie that quickly, yes! And Cody is definitely in denial, too terrified to acknowledge anything else. Denial's a pretty powerful thing, and can leave us blind to what is really going on with those we care about for a time—or indefinitely or permanently, it all depends. And I think there's something there as well, that he doesn't want to have "to deal with the reality of his twin problem," as you put, but I think it's largely just because it's too scary. You know?

Well, I hope I didn't forget to add anything to the author's note here and at the end. I had oral surgery on Monday, got all four of my wisdom teeth out, and the drugs they have me on make me a little loopy, kind of out of it sometimes, I am having trouble remembering everything. I am aware and alert, but sometimes I space and I can't be too certain I remember all that I am supposed to. Here's to hoping! Enjoy! By the way, and also to avoid any confusion, let me just say that this chapter begins _right after_ the end of the last one. Thank you.

And...uh...I know Cody was a jerk in the last chapter...

-0-

Chapter Six - What's In A Name?

-0-

_What's in a name?  
>The encapsulation of what matters to us,<br>The syllables of identity  
>Defining who we are and what we love<em>

"Why didn't you say so in the first place?" I asked, trying to keep the doubt out of my voice. _He's telling the truth. I can feel it. _But I know deep down the only reason I think so is because he's my big brother, and yes, I wanted to believe him if for nothing else than that simple fact of our lives.

"Bleeding untended to can leave someone _dying_, Zack," I scolded, trying to keep him from knowing I'm not really sure if I believe him.

"Yeah, thanks, captain science," my brother shot back defensively. "And I was on my way to clean up—I said that already, Cody."

That was Zack for you.

Sighing lowly, I rubbed my head as I pulled him around the corner near the infirmary, and then I turned towards him. He looked so tired, so worn, and I wondered if I had missed something, because surely his blood loss wasn't _that_ bad…

"Zack, this is serious," I snapped quietly, warningly, suddenly feeling pain choke my throat and heat searing my eyes. "Zack…" I forced out past the tightness; forbid the lump from controlling my larynx. "Bleeding is not to be taken lightly, and it's not a joke—not when it's as deep and dark as this. This isn't a mere scratch!"

He dropped his gaze away.

"Enough blood loss can easily lead to nearly dying…" my voice was soft and strained against the painful knot in my vocal chords. "Or fatally worse," I barely whispered, barely breathed it, hating the harsh thought; it terrified me, and I didn't want to think about it, much less give voice to it—it seemed to make it too real, as though it would give it too much power. "Why?" I choked out in a rough and raw tone. I was confused and torn, and I didn't know what to think.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, then after a second he shot his gaze up to me with a questioning look on his face, hesitation in his eyes, like he wasn't sure…wasn't sure what I wanted him to say? I wasn't sure.

I did know, however, that the pallid look to his skin couldn't be good; he looked weary and faint and not at all healthy. "Come on," I sighed, turning us back to our destination.

I glanced down once as we entered the infirmary, my eyes drawn to the tourniquet hiding damage that had shaken me.

"What are _you_ two doing here?" The voice was short, snappish, and mean—150 pounds of pure terror. Made you not want to even go within a 100 meter radius of the infirmary; I couldn't blame Zack for dreading a visit here.

Ah, great. _She_ was working the infirmary today; _she _was 4'10" of nothing but harsh, cold, crabby temperament. Hatchet was a fitting last name, though I still meant the pseudonym I had once given her, a couple years ago now: Florence Frightengale... History humour helps.

Hands on her hips, left eyebrow raised, and unfriendly expression set about her face, Nurse Hatchet never looked happy to greet anybody, despite the fact that people coming here makes her job a necessity—keeps her needed, thus, a paycheck for her.

"Um…" I hedged uncomfortably, looking at that twitching eyebrow which boded no good. She makes me feel like I'm on pins and needles…that explains Zack's hesitance to come _here_, at least. "Zack had an accident," I quickly supplied, not willing to cross that cross look. Information about the situation from my brother himself wasn't very forthcoming.

"Not surprising," she bit out derisively, voice sugar-coated with sarcasm. "What happened?" it was a snarl through and through this time.

I was conflicted about what to tell her; I didn't know what had happened, but I didn't want to do much more than accept my brother's words.

Before I could answer, she had turned away to retrieve a folder from the file cabinet, and Zack jumped beside me, startled, when she slammed the drawer shut. Eyes blazing, scowl in place, she faced us and flipped open the slim folder, briefly glancing over the information contained therein. Her frown deepened.

"You," she pointed a finger at me. "First, how bad is he injured? Life-threatening?"

"No," we both answered quickly.

"Fine. You," she reiterated, grabbing a form and a clipboard from somewhere among her ominous desk, "I assume you will be able to fill this out." And she thrust paper, board, and pen at me, surprising me enough to drop Zack's arm at last.

Before either of us could react, the towel slipped and blood-darkened white revealed itself to the world, like some sort of white flag soaked with the lifeblood of surrender. It made my stomach churn nauseatingly and for a brief moment, as instantaneous as the blink of an eye, I felt a rush of lightheadedness which subsided and disappeared without a trace as quickly as it had made its unannounced appearance.

Zack swayed.

I settled the clipboard in my hands, a glance upward confirmed Nurse Hatchet's narrowed gaze upon the discarded mess, and, gripping the pen in my fingers against the board and dropping it to my side, I leaned forward to pick up the dropped towel. From the corner of my eye, I saw it, and before I could react, Zack suddenly toppled over.

Fear shot through me and I jumped with it as extra adrenaline spiked my heart rate unexpectedly. "Zack!"

"No, no. You, _out_." Nurse Hatchet grabbed my arm and pulled me away from my brother as I tried to get to him.

I opened my mouth to speak, intending to tell her exactly _where_ she could put her "no" and her "out" but her words broke through the air before mine could.

"Stop," she waved a finger at me, dragging me further away from the distressing form dead to the world on the floor behind us. No, no…_most_ _friggin_' _worst_ analogy in the history of analogies… My breath caught and my heart raced, too fast, too hard.

I wanted to bolt back to his side. Nurse Hatchet was 4'10" of pure iron will and extreme strength, and she single-handedly -literally- overpowered my struggle to get to my twin.

Who did she _think_ she was? "That's _my_ brother, you terror. Let go of me!" I snarled, wrenching in her grasp. The nasty, wretched _muttonhead_ would not be deterred and she did not get the message—and it irked me that no matter how hard I struggled, _I_ couldn't get the message _across to her_. "I'll-I'll press charges!" I snapped, violently, forcefully, frantically trying to get my arm free, desperately trying to get back to _my twin_.

My heart was still pounding too hard, its racing prominent and forceful and sheer pain in my twisting chest.

"You will do no such thing," she spoke condescendingly, yanking the door open.

No, no…sweet life, _no_… a few steps and I would be on the other side of that blasted door… I dug my feet in, terrified of those last few steps—those steps, which were far too close and their proximity scared me more than they reasonably should—those steps, which would place me at an insufferably distant distance away from Zack—my exasperating, blessed, moronic brother; my brother who'd bled out, bright and painful and terrifying, who'd been so weak and pallid and unsteady; my brother who'd abruptly, unexpectedly, _horrifyingly_ _keeled_ _over_ in the infirmary. _I couldn't pass that threshold._

I tried, struggled, fought, desperately, like a man drowning, dying, suffocating, like someone reaching for their only direction, to free myself from that grip—a grip which carried out an unjust sentence—a grip purposed to condemn me once and for all by banishing me beyond that wretched, stupid wall—a wall which would keep me from the embodiment of the single word which the broken record in my brain strung along to the tune of my speeding heart.

_Zack._

A single mantra which held more than simply a name—it meant banter, and arguments, and late night talks, the sharing of dreams and life and never being alone—it meant exasperation and despise, and frustration and irritation and annoyed fondness—it meant ribbing and trust and the assurance that some things never change.

And at that moment, it felt like the world.

_Zack. My brother._ I couldn't pass that doorframe.

"You will get _out_." She intoned firmly.

A painful, rough shove to the arm held tight enough to bruise with a single, unforgiving hand punctuated her words. I was forced over the doorstep, and I couldn't understand it, but stepping over the threshold felt like the sealing of impending doom. It felt like the world crashing down on my shoulders and crushing my chest and twisting my heart around and in and on itself and churning my insides into a giant solid mass of tightness and knots and pain.

She slammed the door shut before I could stop her, before I could process the unthinkable and horrible thing that had happened—what the shutting of that door had been and was, what the passing over of that condemning threshold had sealed. The lock turned with a solid click, and it resounding in my ears like some cruel pronouncement of a judge's decision—the gavel's call sealing imprecation in cold, finalized reality. There would be no changing it, no second chances; the judgement had been given, the sentence to be carried out without delay.

I stared at that confounded door, glaring at it with as much contempt and betrayal as I could muster, as if I willed it to melt and shrivel up and disappear and _let me get to my brother_.

I dropped my head against the exterior of the door, letting my forehead thump against the cursed barrier that barred me from Zack.

Blast it!

I suddenly heard the lock turning again and I lifted my head, surprised, but Nurse Hatchet's scowling, unfriendly face appeared only briefly enough to shove the discarded clipboard and pen at me, hard enough to make me stumble back a few feet long enough for her to slam that blasted portal -now my barricade, and Zack's promise of isolation- shut once more and bolt it against any hope of the grant of entrance. I clenched the clipboard in my hands, hands from which it had fallen when they had grown lax when Zack fainted—the same as they had when I'd seen my twin bloody and reflecting something out of a nightmare -only this time, I couldn't just wake up- and captured memories had slipped and scattered colour and picture perfection -perfect in what they held- across my brother's floor.

I stared at that door, as if I could look through and see my brother, as if it meant nothing and I could be beside him, assuring my pounding heart of his wellbeing and easing my mind with the living, breathing, flesh and blood knowledge that he was alive and breathing and his blood was still warming his flesh from the inside and not marring it on the outside, draining away from him to leave him cold and blue and…

I groaned. _Lifeless. Dead._

The door between us, though, meant more than nothing—it meant everything. It meant waiting and pacing and worrying and not knowing. It meant anxiety and the whispers of dread and the shouting of fear. It meant I was here and he was there, and I could not close the distance between.

It meant he was alone and I was alone, but I was fine and he was not.

At that moment, it felt like the catalyst of the world bearing down on me.

I forced myself to turn away, to turn my back on what would otherwise be cold, unforgiving reality screaming silently yet all too loudly at my eyes.

Ignoring the tightness in my chest, I made myself put one foot in front of the other in a journey carrying me further away from my downed brother. It seemed to me to be as the last thing I wanted—and to do. Yet I also did—did want and did do. I couldn't shake the feeling that I was abandoning Zack, though; I couldn't shake my feelings of desperation, of unease, of pain and of a sudden, gaping void growing stronger, vaster, deeper the further I walked away from that cursed door, beyond which my brother fared only God knows how.

Finding a bench further down the hall, around a corner, I sunk down onto it, mentally warring and seeking answers I never grew any closer to getting.

I was suffering from confliction, I knew. And I couldn't cure it.

I wanted to go back and bust that door down; I wanted to stay right here. I wanted to be by my brother's side, but since I couldn't, I didn't want to see that door withholding me—but I wanted to stay as close by as possible. I wanted to believe Zack, because he's my big brother and he's not supposed to be anything like what the other options entailed; I felt that perhaps I knew better and his explanation was bogus.

Then again, it was believable. Because it was so…_Zack_.

I shook my head, trying to clear it, trying to dispel that one word which stuck so steadfastly to every vestige of my brain. Sighing heavily and hoping to somehow silence the rushing in my head, I turned my attention to the clipboard in my hand, hoping to distract my thoughts from their broken record keeping. It didn't work. The first blank required a name, and my mind, already susceptible, latched onto its one chord.

_Zack._

It resounded in my head in time with the pounding in my chest. The skipping track, stuck in repetition of a single sound, one iteration, blocked out all other thoughts—I couldn't simply hit a button to skip to a new track; replay had zeroed in on one syllable, and it would not let it go.

_Zack._

I was terrified, to be honest. Terrified because I did not know what to make of the situation, and even if that other option…an option I refused to acknowledge…was out of the question, the fact that Zack had simply keeled over was enough to scare all reason out of me.

_Zack._

And apparently all control and order of my brain.

Accepting what I wanted to believe all I wanted did not erase the terror slicing through my veins, the horror rising, sharp and bitter, in my throat. Nothing would erase seeing my brother simply fall flat on his face, unconscious, for no apparent reason. Was he suffering from blood loss more intensely than I had realised? Was I missing something?

I didn't want to be missing him, as that would mean he's dead and I can't have that. I can't be missing…

_Zack._

The annoying prat that he was, he'd now found a way to annoy me without even being around me. How does he _do_ that? I needed to sort through my thoughts, I needed to fill out this form, I needed… but I couldn't do any of that. My brain would not release its hold on that single syllable.

_Zack._

One syllable which held more meaning than the longest known word. One name which held more importance than any figure in history. One person who could put my mind, my knowledge-filled, ordered, capable brain on the fritz.

_Zack._

The mantra of one syllable, a short title which meant far more than its minuteness implied—it meant kinship and brotherhood and family, that blood still trumps water and no matter what, someone has my back—it meant striving and straining to be my own person, a stretching shadow always haunting my limelight and endless comparisons—it meant individuality and similarities and glaring differences, pain and problems and grievances—it meant aggravation and frustration and lividness, and love and dislike and hate and _never_ being _alone_…it meant…the assurance that I will never be alone, no matter what comes, and a constant which anchors in a world where nothing _ever_ stays the same.

And right now, it felt like the world.

_What's in a name?  
>The embodiment of everything we don't want to lose<br>Love is what is in a family's name  
>A title which encapsulates what we care most about<em>

_What's in a name?_  
><em>The tie that binds<em>

-0-

**Author's Note:** Maybe this redeems the younger twin a little bit, eh? I have to say, I'm really liking this chapter. Cody's thoughts towards the end are awesome...but that's just me (I'm a sucker for brotherly-ness). So, what do you think is wrong with Zack? First, he's cutting, then he's dying, now he's fainting...what next? Becoming a martyr? Oh, wait... Alright, well, what do you like most about this chapter? Anything pop out at you?

I love the way Cody's mind kept jumping around, yet always coming back to Zack. Like the part where he wondered if he was missing something, and his brain latched onto the word "missing" and he suddenly worried about missing his brother, because that would mean Zack was dead. And he can't have that. So he doesn't want to be missing his brother. It's...well, I don't know...it was sweet, I guess. Also, but like I already mentioned, all the parts about "it meant" were really awesome. Nice brotherly-ness there, I guess.

And don't worry, we'll get back inside Zack's head here before too long!

Does anyone remember the Nurse Hatchet reference, or even know the Florence Frightengale reference in that episode? I laughed at that. Florence _Nightengale_ was actually quite a good nurse; quite an admirable young woman, she was, and an extraordinary caregiver, I hear.

I know one of these words [_tourniquet_] was used before, but it's not one I have seen very often and I realised it was in this chapter, too, so I figured I'd put it here instead. The word isn't used in the entirety of its expanded definition, but it is close enough.

Vocabulary:

larynx - **voice box**

pallid - (1) **pale**: _having an unhealthily pale complexion_

tourniquet - **device to stop bleeding**: _a tight encircling band applied around an arm or leg in an emergency_ [specifically]_ to stop severe arterial bleeding that cannot be controlled in any other way_; [Pretty much, a device used to check blood flow, and we can leave it at that.]

muttonhead - **[informal insult]**: _an offensive term that deliberately insults somebody's intelligence or knowledge_

ribbing - (3) **teasing**: _playful or friendly teasing (informal)_

gavel - (a)** small hammer**: _a small hammer used by a judge ..._

imprecation - (1) **curse**: _an oath or curse_; (2) **act of cursing somebody**: _the calling down of harm on somebody_

confliction - (3) (psychology) **mental struggle**: _a psychological state resulting from the often unconscious opposition between simultaneous but incompatible desires, needs, drives, or impulses_

iteration - (1) **repetition**: _an instance or the act of doing something again_

Anyway, a significantly shorter author's note than last chapter, I know. Sorry last chapter got so long, but there was a lot to mention! And, also, once more, I know I've said this every time, but that does not mean I do not mean it—we really welcome any thoughts you feel worth sharing or you feel like taking the time to, but by no means feel like they won't be appreciated, please!**  
><strong>  
><strong>Thank you<strong> all for reading and we continue to look forward to this journey taken with all of you! We hope to see you all again next week (updates are on Wednesday evenings)! There will be more Zack-angst in the next chapter, if that heightens the suspense or garners your curiosity! See you around..._  
><em>


	7. Then Let Them Fall

Falling Through the Cracks  
>by <strong>Aimme<strong>,  
>with touches by <strong>My Note Book<strong>

**Summary:** His mask was flawless. His walls were perfectly structured. Protection and cautionary containment at its finest. Even a perfect pretend held fractures, though, and no matter how strong his glue, under the right circumstances, glue cracked and had to be gutted and filled in again. **  
><strong>

**Author's Notes:** Please see the first chapter for all thorough disclaimers, warnings, and notations made by the author(s).

**BlackKeys96**, thank you! Your reviews always make me smile. And I like how you put it, about Cody's thoughts and how they kept coming back to "what is most important right now, which is his twin." And about how Cody is "unwilling to use the other [story]" is certainly true. He seems to keep continuing to shoot it down, instead of exploring that option. And it might end up costing him. It might already have, though, you know? I suppose, to some degree, it depends on how you look at it—or don't, as is the case with Cody. :P Yes, how much he fought with the nurse, his desperation—it was tangible, was it not? Poignant and touching, it seemed to me. Once again, thank you!

**Furthermore**, as you will see, this chapter begins _at the beginning of chapter 6_, so please bear with it. I think you will really like it. I wanted to get back inside Zack's head, and **My Note Book** agreed with me that it would be great to tell what Zack was thinking during last chapter. There are more details about this at the end of the chapter...

-0-

Chapter Seven - Then Let Them Fall

-0-

_I feel the familiar come on again,  
>Panic and terror begin setting in,<br>And my company is commonplace  
>I brace the effort to save my face<em>

"Why didn't you say so in the first place?" Cody demanded of me, the snide note cutting and to the point. I cocked a brow at his voice -strained and striving, but for what I wasn't sure- and tried to assemble my own scattered thoughts. Tear tracks were still visible, caressing the contours of his face in a cold, cruel grasp—a grasp I despised. I tried to think past that, but the wheels of my mind would not turn past the rut jamming up my brain function, freezing my thoughts in their tracks.

"Bleeding untended to can leave someone _dying_, Zack." His eyes flashed briefly, as if there were more to the thought than he had conveyed to me, but knowing what I did, I did not find the given thought very impressive.

"Yeah, thanks, captain science," I snapped derisively, rolling my eyes. I did _not _appreciate a long haul over the coals, and I especially didn't since I was _not_ so empty-headed that I didn't know that—and especially since I had known exactly what I was doing. There was no chance that I could have killed myself; I knew what to do. "And I was on my way to clean up—I said that already, Cody," I let my tone drip with exasperation, because I certainly felt some of it beneath everything else.

Ugh…I felt _so_ tired. And I didn't normally feel _this_ weary after cutting, but I had cut deeper than I had in a long while. I had never been caught, either, and had to return my mask to order before the repair to the cracks in my wall had been sealed completely. I felt numb and drained, torpid even, and the emotional energy it took to withstand this encounter with my brother was more than my enervation could handle.

This situation was draining, like the way all the driving need for release trickled out on warm, sticky crimson. I'd watched my blood drain away many times, knowing it meant life and just like the one I lived, it was slipping away from me. Knowing that just as it should have been inside of me, fitting in my skin, I was just as at odds with how I should be and that I most definitely didn't fit in my skin, either.

I wanted to be protected; I wanted to be free. I had to be mean to Cody to hide all my secrets, all my reasons—and definitely the fact that he was the reason my blood stained skin and towel and mind, being prominent and shed and there in the first place. The strain, however, was beginning to tear.

Well, he was _most_ of the reason; the pressure had been building for awhile now, and had coalesced under the straw which spread the cracks—his words breaking my mask into fractures, my wall into useless pieces.

"Zack, this is serious!" My brother's voice snapped me from my thoughts as I registered the tug which had pulled me around the final bend in the walk to the dreaded infirmary and then up short to face my twin. His voice had choked and the grip on my arm was mercilessly tight, and as I stared at him, his eyes full of aggravation and glistening in the light, I wondered why his distress had to _always_ hit me so deeply.

"Zack…" this word bravely fought and overcame any strangle attempting to overbear it. "Bleeding is not to be taken lightly," he reprimanded, stern in light of trying to win against the emotions I could see -though not name completely- trembling beneath the surface in his gaze, "and it's not a joke—not when it's as deep and dark as this. This isn't a mere scratch!"

Neither is the pain in my heart; this is a thorn, digging deep and forcefully, and it won't go away. Perhaps it's a permanent fixture there.

I only pleaded for one hope: that he would not realise how close to the mark his words hit, that he would not be able to even begin to guess how true his words rang. This _isn't_ a mere scratch; and it certainly will not heal as easily as one—not the way a childhood scrape can magically be made better with a kiss, a hug, and a band-aid. _This_ will not be dismissed so effortlessly; it cannot be healed that way.

He was so close to the truth, too close, and his eyes brimmed with so many afflicted emotions, so much misery clear and sharp. Too much torment, sorrow. I looked away.

"Enough blood loss can easily lead to nearly dying…" his voice washed over me, its soft tone agonizing. I could hear the choke in his words and my heart twisted over on itself several times, my insides turning. "Or fatally worse," he spoke so quietly, the implication of that low level wrenched the smouldering wreckage in my chest. "Why?"

Oh sweet life, did he have to ask it like _that? _My gut twisted so painfully, so fast, I felt my stomach heave and I stifled the urge to wretch.

"I'm sorry," my own vocal chords refused much beyond a murmur, a searing heat slicing through my throat briefly. I swallowed. What did he want me to say? I hesitantly returned my gaze to his own, cautious about being caught and revealed and undone, trying to read him for an answer to that. What was I supposed to say? I would be the puppet and recite my lines dutifully if I knew what I was required to express and voice so that I could take it all away like I was expected to do. I could not meet that expectation, though, because I did not know the script he required of me.

Cody's gaze briefly swept over my face, but what he was taking in, I did not know. It wasn't anything I was letting him take, though, but only what was offered without. I swallowed the burn of bile at the back of my throat, hoping saliva could douse the fire burning within. Weariness complicated weakness, a dangerous combination for me, yet I fought it.

"Come on," was a sigh as my brother pivoted around to continue his hustling of us to an office I did not want to get any nearer, and this with good reason.

"What are _you _two doing here?"

See? She is _always_ on duty whenever I happen to come here. It's _my_ _ambsace_. People with needles are bad enough—Nurse Moustache with a needle is a death-warrant. I wish I had a notarized will; I'm going to need it before long.

Arms akimbo, scowl firmly in place, left eyebrow cocked, she didn't exactly make a patient feel at ease—in fact, she gave one the impression of ill-will. I thought a patient was supposed to be made comfortable and helped to relax. She put me on pins and needles…and that analogy here is a double whammy. I wanted to run very, very far away…again.

"Um…" Cody said brilliantly, and his discomfort was obvious.

'_Bravo, captain science. What an excellent articulation.' _I didn't have anything to add.

"Zack had an accident," he supplied, rushing his words after Nurse Moustache's eyebrow twitched ominously.

'_Oh, thanks.'_ Then again, that is _all_ I had been telling him had happened, so of course it would be his explanation when asked to give one. I guess I can figure that Cody bought my story.

"Not surprising," her tone dripped sarcasm and I could feel my own gaze narrow at her. What a…a…_smellfungus_! "What happened?" she snarled and the look on her face was not flattering to her already nasty complexion in the least.

I could see Cody hesitate, and I frowned at him, more prominently inwardly than out. Nurse Moustache had turned away, though, before he could formulate whatever was aligning inside that book-smart head of his. While the menace had turned her malignant attentions elsewhere, I let my gaze wander the room.

I was ill at ease and I rubbed a hand against the back of my head. It was a nervous habit, but not one as present as others that I had. As I dropped my hand back to my side, I tried to settle my disquiet inside, but it wasn't working. My roving gaze sought some place to rest to provide what my mind did not have, to offset the restlessness building in me. I clenched my free hand, the tingling from earlier posting a reminder in my brain, but I couldn't give into the panic attack attempting to make itself at home in my chest.

I hated being here. It was too cramped, too ominous. Too many dangerous instruments—and the sterile environment churned my stomach, and there were one too many cruel nurses for this space.

And the needles. I imagine they were everywhere, catching the light and reflecting them off their shiny, dangerous surfaces. Small and cold and cruel, they made my skin crawl. Why did I have to be here? I hate needles.

'_Cody…'_ He'd better not leave. Leave me alone. I wouldn't be able to handle it. He dragged me here; he'd better not even _think_ of leaving me alone here—I cannot handle it inside, definitely not now, not in my current inward state. Too many needles, too many fears.

'_Cody, __don't__ leave me alone in here, buddy. Please don't.' _I could hear my voice echo words that would never pass my frozen lips, never leave a heart which smouldered in pain and hid in the shadows of swirling ash inside of my tightening chest. The only time those words might be spoken would be if I was dying and I had but moments left on my deathbed. I would not want to spend them in a hospital room, growing colder and more alone, among all the shadows waiting to devour me.

Too many demons whispering from the shadows, the corners, the glaring needles and dangerous instruments. Too many fears waiting to overcome me and take me down, drowning me among a dearth of reason and sound mind and rationality. Waiting to suffocate me with cold, cruel hands eager to mete out my demise. My befitting demise.

My breathing sped up, becoming shallow, quick, and irregular.

The _bang_ which resounded suddenly throughout the room made me jump, my nerves already shot. My head snapped over to Nurse Moustache, who scowled darkly at the file folder she had withdrawn from the abused cabinet, and I tried to get my heart rate under six thousand, trying to settle myself again—or at least to the level of settled, such as it was, that I was before. My heart was pounding way too fast, the startle still racing through every heightened nerve in my body.

My hands began to tingle, a rush of cold sweat making my palms clammy. I tried to still the trembles trickling throughout my body.

Her dark gaze swept across the information in the slim file she held in wicked-looking hands, and then she raised her glare back to us, her scowl intensely zeroing in on me for a moment.

What did that file contain?

Her gaze then glanced to Cody. "You," she pointed one gnarly, ominous index at my brother. "First, how bad is he injured? Life-threatening?"

"No," the single syllable shot out from both our mouths simultaneously.

"Fine."

What? Seriously? What is _wrong_ with this lady?

Panic coiled tighter, fierce, in my chest and I felt as though I could not breath. My gaze darted around, but I was not sure what I expected to find. I knew, though, that I could already feel the prick of needles everywhere on my skin, the clamp of harsh, unforgiving fingers digging into my flesh, the unfriendly aura threatening to suffocate me…

"You," she ground out, reiterating her addressing of my brother as she dug a clipboard, with a form, out from somewhere among that unpromising desk. "I assume you will be able to fill this out," she snapped shortly, jabbing the clipboard, along with a pen, at Cody, causing him to let go of my arm finally in a startled attempt to grab a hold of the items she had thrown at him.

The towel slipped off, dried blood pulling loose and fresh sluggishly oozing out from the puckered flesh, the wound broken open again. The cut was deep, the edges curling in, and my cold skin reheated beneath the warmth of the vital fluid as it pooled again, lazy drops trickling down my arm—priceless garnets leaving a trail of gemstone dust behind, glistening and glinting in the light.

I observed the listless race of vitality dispassionately for a moment before my gaze flickered to the discarded towel, which had dropped to the floor like some cliché picture of a rag-doll tossed aside, abandoned. Red, dark and drying, greeted the world—stark, lifeblood rust on a white flag. Surrender. Life-force drenching the flag which hailed the laying down of arms. My admission of defeat.

A rush of lightheadedness infused my brain, and I felt dizzy, nauseous; darkness curled in at the edge of my mind as I stared down at the mess that had become of my life. I felt myself lean and I mentally shook myself, trying to surface from the dimness which pulled me down, but it was closing in and I couldn't find the way out.

Cody leaned forward to pick up the bloody damage, the travesty of my life unveiled, and my heart rate skyrocketed, the blood still inside of me roared in my ears, leaving me awash with vertigo; it rushed so quickly into my mind I was barrelled over by it; darkness hedged my vision and swiftly swallowed it.

I don't remember the last thing I remembered.

_If pieces fall, then let them fall where they will  
>And if they scatter and never return, what does it matter?<br>The die will hit down, all the cards reveal their fill  
>And I will see again that my worth doesn't really matter<br>_

-0-

**Author's Note: **Oh, whoops. Did we not cover any _new_ material with this chapter? **My Note Book**, I knew we forgot something! -coughs- Ahem, well, actually, I would like to note that, in all technicality, it _was _new material, we just did not write anything past a happening we already knew happened**—**Zack passing out, that is.

**(Also, continued from top):** You see, the last chapter had been written with the plan for it to be the first part of a two-part chapter. The plan had originally been to have this chapter be one with the last, but as we finished up with what would have been noted as "Cody's POV" in what is _now_ chapter 6, we came to two trains of thought: (1) the chapter was a decent enough length considering how long our chapters had been ranging around, and (2) splitting the two parts up into two chapters prolonged the suspense. Doesn't it? Anyway, there were things Cody noted about Zack in certain parts that seeing what was going through Zack's head at those places was too irresistible—and, to a degree, it was written that way on purpose. However, there were times I would write something, and I was then so grateful I planned on getting in his head, because I wanted to know -wanted to show- what it _meant_. Like the part where he "dropped his gaze away" or the part where he seemed hesitant about his "I'm sorry." I wanted to share what was in his head at those parts. Plus, a chance to walk with Zack through his fear of needles and such, hearing his thoughts right up until he passed out? Yeah, too much of an awesome-thing right there. In my opinion.

In chapter 3, Cody notes that Zack has some kind of aversion to needles. I had written that and planned on eventually mentioning it again, but, while Zack struck me as the kind of person that would or might have an aversion to needles, that was simply a concept in my mind at the time. Later, I re-watched an old episode from the first series (_Boston Tea Party_)...he says himself he hates needles. I was so ecstatic. I can say I have some kind of canon-backing to my claim, now.

So, now, do I finally get back to asking questions like I have been doing at the end of chapters? I suppose last chapter's questions still stand [_So, what do you think is wrong with Zack? First, he's cutting, then he's dying, now he's fainting...what next? Becoming a martyr? Oh, wait... Alright, well, what do you like most about this chapter? Anything pop out at you?_], but maybe I need to say something else. Uh... What do you suppose might be coming next? What might you hoping might happen? You know I love hearing those thoughts! It makes my day and gets me excited all over again about writing about Zack and Cody.

I liked this bit from the beginning, "Tear tracks were still visible, caressing the contours of his face in a cold, cruel grasp—a grasp I despised. I tried to think past that, but the wheels of my mind would not turn past the rut jamming up my brain function, freezing my thoughts in their tracks." I really liked the "I'm sorry" part (**My Note Book** really liked the puppet-line, and I have to agree), the silent plea with his brother to not leave him (ah...and we _know_ what happened then...that confounded Nurse Moustache!), his mini panic attack he was going through between Cody's explanation and Nurse Hatchet's retrieval of "the file." Ah, who am I kidding? This chapter is a favourite of mine and **My Note Book **(beginning to notice a trend there with our favourites?). Also, I am intrigued by Zack's vocabulary. He knows some random words you do not see very often, for all that he cannot seem to get a good grade in school and everyone thinks he's an idiot. What do you suppose this shows? I mean, _I_ know...or I, at least, have my own view of it, if you will.

Vocabulary:

torpid - (1) **sluggish**: _lacking physical or mental energy_

enervation - _(n.) from the verb_ **enervate**—enervate** - weaken: **_to weaken somebody's physical, mental, or moral vitality_

ambsace - (2) **bad luck**: _bad luck or worthlessness_

akimbo - (1) **with hands on hips**: _with the hands on the hips and the elbows turned outward_

smellfungus - **ill-tempered person**:_ an excessively fault-finding person [archaic]_

travesty - (1) **false representation**:_ a distorted or debased version of something__  
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Once more, I have said this every time, but it is still still just as meant it as the first time and every other time I have said it—we welcome any thoughts you feel worth sharing or you feel like taking the time to, but by no means feel like they won't be appreciated! **  
><strong>  
><strong>Thank you<strong> all for reading and we continue to look forward to this journey taken with all of you! We hope to see you all again next week (updates are on Wednesday evenings)!**  
><strong>


	8. Therefore Death Could Not Take Him Away

Falling Through the Cracks  
>by <strong>Aimme<strong>,  
>with touches by <strong>My Note Book<strong>

**Summary:** His mask was flawless. His walls were perfectly structured. Protection and cautionary containment at its finest. Even a perfect pretend held fractures, though, and no matter how strong his glue, under the right circumstances, glue cracked and had to be gutted and filled in again. **  
><strong>

**Author's Note: **Please see the first chapter for all thorough disclaimers, warnings, and notations made by the author(s).

I know you all probably wanted to hear more about the twins, but in the words of Miyagi from The Karate Kid (the original one), "Patience, Daniel-san, patience." We return to the twins soon, I promise. There's a lot of drama(tics) in this chapter, but the show _is_ a comedic drama...

**BlackKeys96**, thanks for your review! Your thoughts were a pleasure to read, and totally awesome. I am interested by what you said about a line in the last chapter being like a double-meaning for what is going on with him right now. Would you care to elaborate on that thought, if you can? I would love to hear more! And you are right, the way he talks inside his head says that he is not the idiot everyone thinks he is. In chapter 5, he said, "Contrary to _fooled_ opinion, I'm not an idiot." (I added the emphasis here to make that stand out more in this context as we are discussing this.) The questions, I suppose, are why he thinks he has to hide or why he pretends to be an idiot? Is he protecting someone or himself? Does it have to do with Cody? If so, what it is about Cody? Is it about, perhaps, making his brother look better so Cody can obtain all those dreams of his since Zack knows he would never come close himself to such a meaningful, purposeful, impacting life like his brother would have if Cody can manage to get this or get that (like, get into a top Ivy League school)? As I continue writing, these and other questions will be pondered and explored. I do not know what will be in _this_ story, particularly, but I plan on writing more stories after this one. And also, I wanted to note that it is true—it is sad how the way he talks in his head, showing that he is not an idiot, reveals how well his mask is since everyone is so thoroughly fooled. Once more, why is it and what does it all go back to? Maybe we will find out in FTtC, but if not, there will be other stories coming along eventually! Thanks so much for your review; **My Note Book** and I appreciated it greatly!

On to the next part, then...

-0-

Chapter Eight - Therefore Death Could Not Take Him Away

-0-

"_When you are sorrowful, look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight." -Kahlil Gibran_

Her distress ran so deeply, and so intensely keen, that there was not a shred of her brain energy devoted to her surroundings, but auto-pilot for her legs took the rest of her body through the halls on a headlong rush for the infirmary. Her subconscious drew her to the destination of her course, while her conscious filled her head with terrifying scenarios. The broken record of thoughts skipping in her head was the catalyst for the horror and the desire to simply wake up which pounded through her veins with every frightened beat of her heart.

How could this have happened? How could this be? Was this not some crazy dream she would surely wake from? When would she open her eyes to her cabin ceiling and London's insults about her chicken clock, or wake up in the storm shelter at home to find out the last week had been some kind of trauma-induced nightmare? The logical side of her mind said nothing of the sort was going on, that she was not dreaming and there would be no waking up this time. She wanted to silence that part of her mind…she wanted to silence _every _part of her mind, for all the horrible thoughts spinning like twisters over her rattled wits.

Bailey shivered, but the tremors running through her were more from her trembling heart than a chill on the air.

Goose bumps decorated her arms, though, as tiny hairs stood on end and a lack of warmth swept across her body, her blood feeling as though it was frozen yet it remained rushing through pathways under her chilled skin. Adrenaline kept her heart pulsating a drumbeat which could rival the intense rhythm and firm tone of Indian war drums, but the way the garrison of her innermost being ached deeply in her chest reminded her that her heart had stopped already and would not thrum with life until this nightmare had faded away.

But would it?

Tears coursed down sun-kissed cheeks, trickling out from hazel eyes. The water of emotion clung to the contours of her expression, wetting her face and clumping her eyelashes together. Misery embraced every aspect of her frame, adhering sharply to her attentions. Is this what coming undone looked like, what your world falling apart feels like?

"Bailey, are you alright? You look as though someone has died. Is this about the tornado? Did it get Porkers?" Mr. Moseby's voice halted the girl's weeping course for the infirmary as he briefly touched her arm to garner her attention.

"No, Mr. Moseby," Bailey answered, distractedly, stumbling over her thought and her words, "I'm not… I… well, that is… um…" She looked away, trying to connect a coherent explanation in her head and transcribe it to her tongue so she could tell him about Zack.

She knew that, deep beneath everything else, the ship manager truly cared about the oldest twin (both of them, for that matter), and that no matter how angry, frustrated, exasperated, or plain overborne with the teenager he got, there was a soft spot deep beneath all the other gruff exteriors reserved for Zack (and Cody, too). How could she tell him about the atrocity bearing down upon the twins even while they stood here, him awaiting an explanation and her trying to assemble one? It was unthinkable, but the whole situation was that and she did not think she could survive thinking about it.

Half of her mind had magically abandoned her; half of her brain had become a giant mass of useless protoplasmic fibres.

A hand upon her trembling right shoulder caused her eyes, which had fallen away, to rise to meet a gaze filled to the brim and overflowing with concern and understanding and gentility.

"Bailey, dear, what is it?" The voice was mild and prodded with the softest touch, but the question filled her ears, ringing and echoing and clogging them. How to tell?

'_Should__ I tell?'_ She asked herself, her mind spinning upon the wheels of questions she struggled to unwind, determine, process, and answer. She knew millions of answers, never faltered; she simply raised her hand -or sometimes, _did not_- and spouted off at the mile-a-minute way her brain spun its wheels and regurgitated the answers she had memorized. Here, there was nothing to memorize and no handy textbook to help her articulate what went into her brain and put it back out once more for others seeking the end to a question.

She stared into Moseby's chocolate browns and saw the genteel and calm look which quietly prompted her to answer, and she knew…

'_I must.'_

She swallowed solidly, her own hazels staring hard between the two eyes locked upon hers.

'_If I don't tell him, then who will? If not me, then why __not__ me? Besides…I have always been good at telling people these kinds of things. Goose-darnit!' _She paused to wonder if it was a good thing or not. '_Stay on track. __I must tell__. Oh feathers…I have to tell him. Now.'_

Already staring him straight in the eye, Bailey attempted to tell him about the awful news concerning a certain older twin.

"Well, Mr. Moseby…Zack is…he, uh…um…" Bailey trailed off, her eyes drifting off towards the ground. How could she regurgitate such a horrible pronouncement? Another tear tracked down her face, falling from crestfallen eyes and tracing tear-stained cheeks with a doting, nigh-mockingly gentle, finger.

Before she could attempt to finish her horrendous thought, Mr. Moseby interrupted the recitation.

"What did he _do_?" the ship manager's voice asked, and if her gaze had been raised so she could have seen, she would have noted the suddenly narrowed gaze; as it was, all she knew was what she heard—and she heard that he had used _The Tone_.

Bailey lifted her gaze, now seeing the slanted eyes boring into hers, and tears slowly made their way, renewed, down her face. Picking back up her courage, she ignored the implication of the other's words and tried to ignore the implication of her own as she continued, taking in a deep breath to cruelly give a piece of life -part of her own precious one, no less, when there was already a life being taken- to the death knell dying to bear down on them.

"Mr. Moseby, something awful has happened…someone very close to m-I mean, both of us, is in pain. Very bad pain." _'Fatal pain,'_ her oh-so-helpful mass of protoplasmic fibres added for her. "What I mean to tell…is that…well, it is that… that is… what I mean, is that Zack… He is…" Bailey took a moment to get herself back together, for her voice kept hitching and scratching and her tongue stumbling over the words as her chin trembled terribly. Her heart kept screaming that she could not do it. She could not, she could not.

She closed her eyes against the onslaught volleying inside of her, a groundswell determined to bleed her dry, drown her outright, and cast her aside like the useless walking system of organs she was. She swiped a hand across her face, soaked by sorrow and pain and pieces of a breaking, overborne heart.

She inhaled another deep breath into aching lungs—a side-effect -literally- of her aching heart, which resided in close proximity to the air sacs holding a gas which would breathe upon the air outside of her no more deeply dreaded words than ones pronouncing certain death.

Unveiling hazel depths of fatality-induced pain, she looked back once more into deep browns and found nothing but concern and, now, worry. Mr. Moseby had fallen silent, apparently deciding not to say anything, which was something off and rather weird in and of itself, but something for which she was grateful. He must have understood that something was terribly -_oh-so-terribly-_ wrong and realised it would be better to say nothing, which let her find her thoughts and make half-hearted, but insistent, attempts at assembling them.

"He is…dying," she managed out the harsh word. She winced internally and felt part of her weep stronger than ever at the pronouncement, a deep keening sound deep within her which threatened to split her body down the middle with its ferocity and let her bleed out, until all of her internality had spilt everywhere across the clean, neat print of the traditional carpet.

Bailey's words hung, suspended indefinitely, always, forevermore, in the air before they finally sunk into the depths of fast-paced hearts exploding with dread and terror and intense pain.

"He's WHAT?" Mr. Moseby suddenly screeched and Bailey winced more pronouncedly, and the man appeared not to care how passengers quickly rushed by, scared by the manager's precipitous outburst.

Bailey stood, frozen to the carpet, barely able to breathe with frozen air and frozen lungs and frozen heart, shell-shocked and bowled over by this sudden turn of events; a jump backwards was part of her body's initial reaction to the startle, but not one her brain registered or seemed to allow. Her nerves shot, her heart raced, gushing blood throughout veins and arteries and capillaries in pristine condition, but she could not move again.

She was not afraid of him, but adrenaline had exploded through her at his sudden screech and the rapid and abrupt and far too keen outburst of both had made her body jolt. Now her own overbearing emotions and way too put upon body had become melded to the floor in the hallway of a ship which had given her a family…and had now, apparently, become the deathbed of one of the members of the family it had provided her.

More than that, though, she had her suspicions and hopes that before too much time, a few years or so, Zack would be her affine. Surely her and Cody were headed to the altar in eventuality, right? So, how could she lose Zack before he had become that? She felt a strange possessiveness steal over her, a part of her heart which said he was _hers_, a tightfisted covetousness which had nothing to do with romance and everything to do with simply pure and true amorevolous feelings for one she realised meant more than only friend, and therefore death could not take him away.

"What _happened_? When? Where?" Mr. Moseby was talking so fast, it was hard for Bailey to understand him. Panic had set into his frame, sheer, unprecedented horror written across his stricken features.

She always knew he cared for Zack. They _all_ did.

"I don't know much yet, Mr. Moseby," she began, her thoughts awhirl still as she tried to organise some semblance of order in her muddled brain. "Woody saw Cody dragging Zack through the halls, on their way towards the infirmary. There was a lot of blood all over Zack, and he looked…pale, worn, tired…" _'Dying,' _her brain supplied. "So out of it. And Cody had blood all over on his arms, too."

"Had what all over his arms?" the horror, the silent plea to be mistaken, was unmistakeable in that stricken tone.

"Blood."

Manager though he was, Mr. Moseby did not seem to notice or care about the scene they were making or the passengers giving them a wide berth. He looked frantic, scared even. He began to pace back and forth, creating an even wider circle around them as people went out of their way to avoid the agitated alopecic man.

"Does anyone else know?" the mouth at the bow of the restless frame spouted as it moved to and fro in its beeline, repetitious circuit of the room.

"Yes," Bailey began, but before she could elaborate about who, the study in apprehension voiced the predictable question.

"Who?" he asked, throwing a plough-sized wrench into his pacing, drawing up short to cast her a searing look.

"Um," she stumbled over her thought, trying to construct order in her now demolished sense of construction and order in her studious brain. "As you know, Woody knows, and I'm sure that London should know by now. I'm not exactly sure how many people know by this time, however," she answered to the best of her ability, but her scattered stability and tidiness amongst the trappings of her mind did little to assist her mouth or most of her motor skills.

One of them dying? They might as well all be useless, pathetic blobs of listlessness, lacking any of the necessary components to constitute 'living' and 'being alive' since one of them was about to be robbed of all that.

Yes, she had officially dropped all of her caring about most everything else. She itched now, only, to get to the infirmary, certain that Cody was an emotional wreck—and she was certain he was well within his right to be.

His brother was _dying_.

_Zack_ was leaving them.

Now, he had done plenty of mean things, made a nuisance of himself up one side and down the other lots of times, but now…now he had never made such an absolute jerk out of himself as he was right now.

How dare he! He could not _leave_. He could not _die_. Surely he knew there were _rules_ about that!

Granted, Zack hardly cared for rules…except for ones about being a wingman, or when it came right down to being there for his brother, or the one about getting what he wants because he wants it. But dying would not accomplish the keeping of any of these exception-rules. What use did he have to go off and die on them? It served no purpose whatsoever.

Bailey knew she was being ludicrous, ridiculous, outrageous…but her grief-stricken mind stuck steadfastly and stubbornly to anything else than accepting and submitting to reality.

Reality could go hang itself.

_It_ deserved to die. Not her affine—er, _Cody's_ brother.

Still shocked over the way her life had completely gone off the rails and had crashed beyond recognition in a twisting pile of smoke and heat and dangerous metal (like that train wreck at the end of that children's fantasy series), she stepped slightly forward in an attempt to let the thought in her mind step out from her mouth. "I need to go and see them," she stated as another tear coursed down her right cheek, heartache scalding her chest all the way up her throat.

She wanted to break down and sob her heart out; that is, until the ember blazing inside her had choked out on the tide of tears and had washed away from her. It hurt too much.

"Alright," Mr. Moseby waved offhandedly, reaching a hand inside of his jacket. "I will go and call Carey. She needs to know." His resigned tone made her want to keen loudly and curl up in a little ball, rocking back and forth on the flood awash inside of her.

"Wait, Mr. Moseby," she managed out, hiccupping slightly in her attempts to control her emotions and her voice at the same time. "I think Cody should t-tell her."

He was, after all, her son. And Zack was his brother. Was it not appropriate that one brother give the atrocious news about another brother to the soon-to-be grief-riddled, shattered mother?

Moseby paused, casting the tear-stained farm-girl a dry-eyed look, but the depth of heartache deep within his gaze wrenched her own heart tightly inside of her.

"You are right," he stated, drawing his words out slowly, a thoughtful purse to his lips and pucker to his brow. He seemed as though to agree with her, but then a thought, connecting painfully and dreadfully sluggishly, within his mind drew out his response, "But…Cody already has so much to deal with right now," he rationalized, a slight tremor to his voice speaking thousands of more words than the ones breathed upon the air. "I do not think he will be able to handle telling her. To be dealing with the shock of it right now, and add on top of that a mother's grief when he is her son as well? He needs time. He needs to take this all in, and he should not have to find a way to handle her initial reaction on top of trying to keep his own head and keep himself together enough as he is."

They both knew how emotional Cody could get…how extremely sensitive he was. And that when something was wrong with him, it was everywhere, all around outside of him, at once. It was blatant and in everyone's face, especially his. He was as transparent as crystal glass, and his emotions just as fragile. He would be too distraught to get through a conversation with their mother, having to pronounce words he surely had not come to even being ready to acknowledge yet.

He would never be able to say those three words. He would never be able to handle it. They would simply have two hysterical people on their hands, and Cody's conversation with Carey would hold no semblance of keeping together. The fallout would be enough just for him—he could not handle their mother going to pieces when he had shattered beyond recognition or repair himself naught moments before.

It would be best if Moseby gave the initial call, and let Cody grasp at the straws of his own fragmented life. Cody would choke to _his_ death first on the words, "Zack is dying," before he would give them life and breath and ear for their mother. He would be a wreck, and could not think for anyone else to save his life.

All of these facts and truths and realities spread thin on the thick, stuffy air between the two devastated people who shared little more in common with each other than their mutual connection with the twins.

Moseby issued a firm nod. "I will go ahead and call Carey. Cody can talk to her later, but let me give her this…dreadful news…about…oh wretched mother of death knell!" and before Bailey could process what had happened, Moseby was hurrying off, slightly ducked over as he dug out his cellphone, but not before she had caught the sheer horror that had blossomed in his aching eyes.

"Mr. Moseby!" she called after him, taking a step in his direction. There was a certain lack of closure to their abruptly terminated conversation.

"She will most likely want to come aboard!" Moseby called back as he slipped outside, headed for the railing of the ship. "I'll call Mr. Tipton too."

"Alright," Bailey replied weakly, swiping a hand at her wet face. "I…I'm going to go on, and-and see Cody."

She saw Moseby cast her a quick glance over his shoulder, a short nod as he placed the phone to his ear. "I'll follow after I'm done making these calls."

She had never heard Moseby's voice shake that much, but the resignation and weariness therein made her want to throw something against the wall and scream that it could not be…it simply could not be.

"Okay," she managed out simply, turning away, trying to hold her trembling self together.

"_The great gift of family life is to be intimately acquainted with people you might never even introduce yourself to, had life not done it for you." -Kendall Hailey_

-0-

**Author's Note:** Yay! Drama! -cough- Okay, but seriously, I do promise that before the end of the story, everyone will come to their senses. Should they all gang up on Woody and hang him over the ocean by his toes? No? Too drastic? How about no food but cauliflower, brussel sprouts, and broccoli for a whole day? Too cruel? Rats... Anyway, I cannot wait until Bailey gets to the infirmary. _That_ will be interesting. -evil grin- Poor twins... Anyway, are you all tired of this story yet? I tell you something, we had not originally planned on writing so much. Truthfully, the first chapter could have been a stand-alone, one-shot.

Further notes about the chapter:

In _Lost at Sea_, Cody says the brain is a "mass of protoplasmic fibers," but he does not get past that because Zack interrupts him with a cough and a pointed look. Thus, that is where that part with Bailey comes from. If I spelled it wrong, that is my mistake. I tried to assure, however, that I got it right. In the words of Riley Poole, though, "I'm no expert."

You know how Moseby always has some off-the-wall expression, like "Big Ben!" and "Holy Makeover!" et cetera? Yeah, I wanted to give him another one. So we have "wretched mother of death knell," and even though it is serious, I still crack a tiny smile.

Vocabulary:

death knell - (1) **signal that something is dead: **_a sign that something is dead, destroyed, or coming to an end;_ (2) **bell announcing death: **_the ringing of a bell to announce that somebody has died_

groundswell - (1) **rising feeling: **_a strong growth of feeling or opinion that is evident but not always attributable to a specific source_

precipitous - (1) **done rashly: **_done or acting too quickly and without enough thought_

affine - (2) (anthropology) **relative: **_a relative by marriage_

alopecic - _(adj.) from noun _**alopecia**—alopecia - **baldness: **_loss or the absence of hair, especially from the human head_

Once more, I have said this every time, but it is still still just as meant it as the first time and every other time I have said it—we welcome any thoughts you feel worth sharing or you feel like taking the time to, but by no means feel like they won't be appreciated! **  
><strong>  
><strong>Thank you<strong> all for reading and we continue to look forward to this journey taken with all of you! We hope to see you all again next week (updates are on Wednesday evenings)! And let me say, writing has not been going so well the past couple of weeks (a bad slump, I guess, but not necessarily "writer's block"), but I am working hard to assure the next chapter is finished by that time. Cody got ornery (and impatient) on me, and then of course there was the lack of information (some stuff about hospitals I could not find out) that was causing some issues with the writing, too. I would definitely appreciate those reviews this time around, as they are very good at prompting my brain into thinking about the story and gets me excited, once more, about writing Suite Life fanfiction._  
><em>


	9. The Memories Were Bittersweet

Falling Through the Cracks  
>by <strong>Aimme<strong>,  
>with touches by <strong>My Note Book<strong>

**Summary:** His mask was flawless. His walls were perfectly structured. Protection and cautionary containment at its finest. Even a perfect pretend held fractures, though, and no matter how strong his glue, under the right circumstances, glue cracked and had to be gutted and filled in again. **  
><strong>

**Author's Note: **So, uh...first, I want to say that this chapter is not all that I planned for it to be. Don't get me wrong, I like what's here, but I am disappointed I could not include everything I wanted to put into this chapter. Once more, this chapter was supposed to be split half-and-half between Cody and Zack. Then Cody got _too_ talkative, I was dealing with a lot of writing issues which compounded my time restraints, and I eventually ended up with this. Half of this chapter was written between last night and today. How fun is that? I haven't even had a chance to do a full edit on it, but I didn't want to let you guys down by not posting this evening. The fact of the matter is, I ran out of time. And I blame most of it on my lack of information about medical forms, which slowed me down tremendously. I had to just improvise a bit, basing my questions on a medical release form for a group my brother is a part of called Royal Rangers (it's somewhat akin to your average Boy Scouts).  
>However, on the subject of Cody getting talkative: I didn't foresee any of that stuff coming, but I don't mind the history. For me, it was...intriguing.<br>I hope this chapter is alright with everyone, but let me say that I like what _is_ here...

**BlackKeys96**, thank you! And also, thanks for elaborating on the double meaning! I appreciated it _and_ I enjoyed your thoughts! I am glad that you thought the chapter emotionally beautiful and the details such as Bailey's irrational anger and her being an emotional wreck were poignant to you. The fallout of that (Bailey's state) will be interesting to see. As for Moseby's initial reaction, you are right: it is sad! And yes, I think he really does love the twins. You just have to get to that soft spot down beneath the prickles it hides in. And oh yes, a big shocker! _That_ will be fun to write, I assure you! By the way, I made some changes on the last chapter and the beginning has a few more paragraphs. I thought I would let you know that you might want to take a gander at that.

-0-

Chapter Nine - The Memories Were Bittersweet

-0-

"_He never thought he cared so much about the minute hand,  
>Until he started praying for a second chance,<br>If he could only do it all again..." -33 Miles_

'_The truth…I wish I knew the truth with Zack.' _I sighed and closed my eyes, willing away the stress-induced headache whispering on the edges of my brain before it could blossom into an out-and-out pain inside my skull. Part of me kept repeating a sentiment that I couldn't do this. I couldn't handle this.

_1:45 PM_

'_Where had the time gone?'_ my mind wondered absently as I left off my glance to my watch, my eyes flickering across the carpet listlessly. My lip curled as I distractedly noted that someone had not vacuumed this hall in awhile.

They really should. I would have to speak to Mr. Moseby about the lackey attitude which had added its touch to this hallway. Someone was slacking, and the uptight manager never let me or Zack off.

'_Zack…' _I groaned in frustration. I'd made the mistake of thinking my brother's name. I pushed past the thought, trying to think through. _'What is it? Surely you're facing something beyond what I'm seeing. Aren't you? You're such an…opinionated person, so sure of himself and together. You didn't seem so very together then. What's your issue? You always have some off-the-wall reason for what you do. What will you tell me this time? Zack…'_

I let out a long breath, returning my attention to the form I was supposed to be filling out. I frowned.

_Social Security Number: _ _ _ __

I knew _my_ social security…but I did not have my brother's memorized. In fact, I couldn't remember even seeing it…once. Did Zack even know his? Considering my twin's penchant for overlooking details and putting things so quickly out of mind that nothing _stuck_ inside that thick skull of his, I rather doubted _asking_ _him_ for it would help—not that I could do that right now anyway.

Stupid lock.

I have to wonder, though, if Mom has even bothered to give him his social security card. Banking on Zack being responsible enough to keep up with it probably wouldn't cross her mind, and since something like that getting lost was too catastrophic, letting him have his card would seem to be too risky. Which meant, that since I couldn't ask Zack, and he probably didn't have his card, I would have to call Mom and ask her.

Which meant that I would have to explain to Mom the situation. What could I say? 'Oh, yeah, I need Zack's social security because I have to fill out this form for the infirmary…the infirmary? Yes, that's what I said. Why? Oh, because I _found_ him _bleeding _and _out of it_ and then he _fainted_ in the _infirmary_ when we _got_ there. _No_, I _don't_ know what's _wrong_ with him... So, how are you? Pleasant weather?'

Oh, yeah, that would just be superb—the most fabulous thing since Ford got a better idea.

Stupid Nurses.

Stupid Nurse _Frightengale_… if she hadn't have kicked me out, I could at least check Zack's wallet to see if Mom _had_ given him his card. If she hadn't have kicked me out, at least I…

I made the mistake of closing my eyes against the thoughts still spinning around, still pushing at my awareness, for when I closed my eyes, I saw that wakeful nightmare which had been in my brother's cabin…the nightmare endured while awake which had transpired in the infirmary.

…At least I could see my infuriating brother in person instead of left wondering what's wrong with him, completely uncertain about his wellbeing…or perhaps lack thereof. At least I could see him.

I glanced at my watch.

_1:47 PM_

_What?_ Only_ two minutes_ had passed? Oh sweet life… I pinched the bridge of my nose, subduing the urge to grind my teeth. (It's not healthy.) I wanted to tell that haughty, put out voice in my head to shut up as it whispered that it was going to be a _long_ wait.

'_Okay, focus. Get over it,' _I tried to tell myself, but some part of me said that it wasn't working.

I returned my attention to the form, finding inside of me a cultivation of the preference for it to be a pop quiz or even finals rather than some kind of cold, removed questionnaire on my brother's medical history. The rational side of my brain told me it was necessary information and that they needed the cold, hard facts, simple and straight, but I hardly felt partial to that part of me at the moment. I would rather have been studying quantum physics or figuring out how to explain string theory to an ant.

With a difficult sigh, I began to fill in the other information which I knew.

'_Cabin number: __8 · 1 0 2 .__'_

That was an easy one, for Zack's cabin was across from mine and the generic numbering system of the ship didn't allow for any specialization. A fact, I might note, that has never much suited my brother.

Whether it was the car window in the old 1989 Ford four-door next to the backseat he always insisted on sitting in -the one behind the empty passenger seat where both of us knew our father _should_ be and wasn't- and that seat and window were _his_ and not to be messed with, or whether it was his side of the room in the Tipton hotel or the outside of our door in our suite, Zack had always felt a driving need to add his spin on whatever was considered _his_ area of our living spaces.

He drove Grandmamma _crazy_ when we stayed with her briefly while our mother travelled for work, because he would not leave the ancient wallpaper alone in our bedroom. She could never get him to leave the deep blue door alone, either, where he hung a number of glow-in-the-dark stars and planets Dad had given him the Christmas before along with a number of seashells he had gathered with Mom at the beach in a state park of Washington -before Dad threw him in the water and chased us both up and down the shore until we had nearly dropped from exhaustion- the last time we had gone as a family when Zack and I were five.

The time period during the fiasco with the walls and the door, though, was also when Grandmamma could never tell us apart, and _that_ drove her crazy, too. She finally settled on a single strip of blue electrical tape around my brother's left wrist to tell us apart, which Zack had found to be fascinating at that age. He took it off a number of times, just to see the tape pull at his skin before peeling away (he also liked slapping it on my arm and yanking it off, which stung a lot), but for the most part, Grandmamma could get him to keep it on and she knew who was who.

If she knew that it was _me_ in the room with her for a period of time and Zack was the one who was absent and had been for too long for him, she knew to head for our room immediately and see what new spin on the decorations he had decided to make.

He would be up there doodling on the walls or taping one torn piece of coloured paper after another to the wall until there was a kaleidoscope collage on the surface he had commandeered—or, one time, he got into Grandpappa's studio and found a bottle of Elmer's glue we were not allowed to have and used that, and Grandmamma was furious at him because the paper would not easily or safely come back off. Our Grandparents tried getting him an art book, something for him to doodle, paint or glue things in—they stocked colouring books and sketch pads, allowed him supervised time with the markers and coloured pencils, the crayons and kids' paint. To a degree, these helped, but nothing worked completely.

I vaguely remember our Grandparents discussing how the situation was a result of his stubborn streak (which he "gets from his father," they would vow staunchly, and is "a mile long and as prominent as Martha's jet blue hair"—words and phrases I did not understand at the time (what is a "stubborn streak" and how can it be a "mile long"? How long was a mile, anyway?) and I did not know who this Martha was nor why her hair would be jet blue—didn't people just have dark, charcoal-coloured hair like my father or golden, sun-coloured hair like my mother or snow-coloured hair like my grandparents did?). They went on to say that it was combined with the fact that our lives were in such upheaval and he was reacting to the situation the only way he knew how—that everything else was out of his control, but this was something he _could _control, so he was going to milk it for all it was worth. They said he had a wild side as untameable as his father and that he was acting out to get attention, and that this compounded the other issues.

He didn't obey or even listen to them when they told him to stop, but I think they felt sorry for him anyway. Our parents had torn our lives apart and neither one of us knew what to make of it, barely six-years-old and the only security we had ever known had been stripped from us. Our Grandparents couldn't have Zack ruining the walls, but they knew he was only reacting and dealing with the tempest-tossed fractures in our family the only way he knew how to at that age—they felt for him. They felt for us both.

Yes, he had driven Grandmamma crazy. But she loved him to no end. And she did her best to help him, to help us both, but Zack had been set off by the disturbance in our life and he had been too unruly for them to be able to settle him down—he had been too emotionally jolted by the split in our world that his rebellious streak had reared its head and he would not be tamed.

However, I don't think he did it to get back at anyone, or that he even did it _on purpose_. He didn't want to _disobey_ our Grandparents, but he couldn't help acting out. I don't think he did it _consciously_; he just _did it_. He had been set off and there was no getting a hold of him again. He was too young to handle it; we both were. Our whole lives had been ripped away from what we knew, our sense of security and home had been shaken, and he subconsciously latched onto the semblance of control because it was something he could bank on.

And while I had Blankie, he wrapped himself up tight in being able to control a situation by acting out.

I wondered if that had ever changed, but I found a part of my heart, deep inside, softly whispering that I couldn't be certain anymore. However, I didn't understand why that whisper was there, I didn't understand what it meant. And I was tired of being so confused, so I ignored it and let that ship of thought sail.

Instead, I let a small, half-smile tug at my lips. The memories were bittersweet, but they were beautiful.

And so much _had_ changed.

At least through it all, though, there had been a thread of constancy in the form of my brother. There were certain quirks of his that I knew I could count on even if the rest of the world turned all around on me, turning everything I knew about it upside down until I didn't know anything about it anymore.

I sighed and glanced at my watch, but my heart fell when I read the hands.

_1:52 PM_

Time was crawling and for reasons I could not pinpoint -_or did not want to pinpoint? _my heart supplied- I was antsy. Being on edge and feeling restlessness gather in a nervous ball of energy inside of me, I tried to curb the grating impatience by returning my attention to the form.

'_Give the date of your latest tetanus shot or booster:  _ _ _ _ / _ _ _ / _ _ _ .'_

I frowned, tapping the pen against my chin. My mind went blank. I had had mine last month, but, unless it was the memory I held of several years ago, I could not remember the last time he had had one, and so I suspected that, since I have not been with him for one in years, it had been too long since he had received his. I rather doubted Zack had _voluntarily_ gone for one, as it had taken a lot of coercion the last time -the time I knew of for certain- to get him to go.

_*Flashback*_

"_Zack, where are your shoes?"_

"_I dunno," was the mumbled reply as his eyes remained glued on the TV screen._

"_Have you __looked__ for them?"_

"_Yup," he answered distractedly, his attention focused on the video game he was totally owning (not that I was __watching__ the game!)._

_I quirked a brow, but remained silent, glancing between his clueless form and Mom's simpering agitation, her hands on her hips and her eyes narrowed. I didn't want to get involved, to be dragged into the middle of what I worried was soon to be another fight, as they were teetering on the edge of one, and with the way my brother was pushing it, it was inevitable._

_I also knew for a fact that Zack hadn't done much looking for his "missing" shoes earlier, either, after announcing at breakfast that he couldn't find them. He had lifted the edge of his blanket on his bed, glanced underneath for a grand total of two seconds before dropping the fabric and getting up with a muttered, "Nope." He had cast his gaze over the room briefly and gave it up as a lost cause. That had been the extent of his looking after we had eaten._

_It was now two hours later, a half-hour until we had to leave, and Zack was paying more attention to the video game than the potential of being grounded from the game system. It was only a matter of time and enough testing of the boundaries before Mom resorted to punishment to get through to him._

"_Where__ did you look for them?" Mom pressed and the slightest lift of a brow told me she was beginning to think along the same vein as my suspicions._

_Zack grunted in frustration, and from my vantage, I could see a scowl flash across his face. "I looked," he grumped, with the slightest hint of a peevish tone mingling in his voice. He slammed the fire-button on the controller in his busy hands, blasting a space-ship to kingdom come. It exploded across the screen, and I wondered if it would be my brother or mother who would be the first to do likewise in this situation._

"_Zack."_

_Uh-oh. It may be my mother._

_Zack's jaw clenched. "What?" he asked with a level of calm that set off warning bells in my mind._

_Great. I was seriously going to __have__ go get into the thick middle of it, wasn't I?_

_Zack may have answered, but he didn't look at her. And Mom suddenly barked, "Zackary!"_

_I wanted to slap my forehead, but before I could even react, Zack had slammed the pause button and jumped up._

"_What?" he snapped at her, his voice raised and his eyes flashing._

_Guess it was my brother. Mom's not far behind, though._

_I hurried over to my mother's side and laid a hand on her arm. "You know what, Mom, why don't you go-"_

"_Don't you take that tone with me, young man!"_

_Oh great._

"_You started it!" he shot back._

"_I am your mother."_

"_So?" he scowled. A bad feeling settled heavily in my gut and I didn't want to see where this was going._

_Mom's eyes narrowed more at his impertinence. "Keep pushing it, mister, and we'll see how much more you understand those words when you've had six weeks of no electronics and straight to school and back to think about it."_

_He scowled, but sniped back, "I'm not pushing anything. I'm standing here."_

"_This is your final warning, Zackary," Mom stated in a cool tone._

_Something flashed across Zack's face, something that I did not understand _(and to this day, I still do not)_. It was a nasty kind of look, one that dropped a cold weight into my gut and struck deeply in my heart. And then it was gone, as I blinked my eyes, as if it had never existed._

_It seemed as if the words Mom had said hit a nerve, driving a point home that I could not for the life of me identify. I had no inkling of an idea. But suddenly, Zack was withdrawing from the fight._

"_Fine," he ground out, but his previous hostility had deflated and he seemed uninterested in getting his way._

"_Fine what?" Mom pressed, but I was distracted by what I had seen. Had I seen anything? Mom apparently hadn't caught the dark look that had skittered, somewhat like a cornered puppy, through his eyes and the nasty grimace that had curled his mouth. Hadn't caught the way those particular words seemed to mean something -something that I wasn't sure I liked- to my twin._

"_What do you __want__ me to say?" Another snipe, borderline resentment and put out cynicism, hinting at bitterness, but he seemed cowed and his tone was quickly losing its heat._

"_Excuse me?" Mom's tone was that of slight surprise, at his apparent impudence, and warning, for his disrespectful attitude._

_Zack's jaw shifted, clenching, and his lips curled the slightest before he forced out calmly, "I asked you what you want me to say."_

"_I heard you, young man," Mom began, but I laid my hand back on her arm. She was too riled, and if she just backed down herself a little now that he had, then this situation would quickly deflate and resolve and we wouldn't be late for our appointment. She rethought her words briefly and continued with, "How about 'yes, ma'am'?"_

_Zack's lips tightened, his mouth twitching in barely restrained anger, and his breathing was heavy and quick. He dropped his head, apparently watching as he scuffed his foot across the carpet for a moment, but when he looked up, his face had adopted a completely indifferent, impassive mask._

"_Yes, ma'am," he answered in a flat tone, dutiful manner. His eyes held more than that, though, but I could not read what was in them._

"_That's better," Mom answered, anger still obvious in her fuming figure. She glanced at her watch. "Now, find those shoes, mister, and you've got ten minutes. You better find them," she warned with an 'or else' tone speaking the silently tacked on words. "And you will be in the living room when your time is up. I will take the system away if you don't watch it, Zackary."_

_Ooh. Still Zackary. He'd really done it this time. She was furious with him._

_Zack grumbled something as soon as Mom's back turned, but she immediately whirled back around._

"_What did you say?" Mom demanded. He should be gulping at this point, but for reasons I couldn't put my finger on, he was rigid and unmoved, emotionless. Riled, sure, but unaffected, removed from the situation. Aloof._

_He didn't reply and Mom's eyes widened in fury._

"_What was that, Zackary?" She seethed._

_Zackary. Again. Her tone was very scary, like she was going to do something to him. Now, I knew she wouldn't, but I was both afraid for my brother and immensely grateful I was not him, that I was not in his shoes—er, position._

_I knew I could trust her not to hurt me or him, but the way he responded didn't sound like it. "N-nothing," Zack stuttered and his eyes got really big._

"_Yeah, you better not have," she bit out, then left our room._

_My brother shook his head and sighed. He looked at me and I knew if I didn't leave soon, I would get a whole boatload of stuff I didn't want. The question I weighed was whether or not I should stay and endure it._

_However, instead of what I expected him to do, he just shook his head again and breathed heavily, dropping his gaze away. He bent down and looked under his bed._

"_Zack?"_

"_Leave me alone, Cody!" he snapped._

_I wasn't really shocked. He always got weird after he and Mom got into fights—like, really bad fights. They had disagreements and spats, sure, but I am talking about the shouting-match showdown that had taken place here a few minutes ago. These kinds didn't happen often, but when they did, the explosions were intense, heated, and could last for hours—although there was one time, one of these fights lasted for two whole days._

_That one had been after Mom and Dad split up, and Mom took us with her._

_They fought for two days, and then Zack refused to talk to her for three days after that. And then, he barely spoke for a week after he did begin talking to her._

_We were five and a half._

_*End Flashback*_

Zack very quickly located his shoes (in the closet, where, I think, he had hidden them), and we had left for our appointment and managed to only be two minutes late. The tension, though, on the ride there, had been great; on the ride back, the silence was easier and soon broken with talks of ice cream and going to the pool. As far as I know, Mom and Zack never talked about the fight, just let it be forgotten, and we moved on with our lives.

Still, it's incidents like these, and the fact that I know Zack hates needles, that tell me that he wouldn't have gone voluntarily to get the shot and so I rather doubted he had had one in years. I just couldn't remember the date of that time, though.

Shaking my head, blowing out a deep breath, I moved on to the next question.

'_Height: __ 5'8" __'_

I knew that one well, because it was a source of contention, sometimes, for Zack that I was two inches taller than him. The thought made me smile. We hadn't finished growing, and it was possible Zack would gain back those missing inches, but for now, the fact was amusing.

'_Weight: _ _ _ '_

I frowned. Once again, I wasn't sure what to put. How was I supposed to know? I shrugged it off and moved on to the yes/no questions.

Then it occurred to me. Why was I filling this out? At the top of the form, there was a disclaimer that stated: _"To be completed by the patient (if 18 or older) or by a parent/guardian if the patient is a minor (under age 18)."_

I was neither the patient nor his guardian, and we weren't eighteen yet. Technically, it would be illegal for me to finish this form. What then? I supposed I would have to call Mr. Moseby, have him come down and sign the form after I had finished filling it in. While we are on the ship and students enrolled in the Seven Seas High program, he is our legal guardian.

A fact he hated, I think.

I exhaled heavily and dug out my phone, but when I dialled the manager, his cell simply rang and rang. His voicemail clicked on.

"_You've reached Marion Moseby's personal cell. If this is important, leave a message. If this is Zack, __don't __bother__!"_

I stifled a laugh. I didn't know Zack was in the habit of blowing up Moseby's cellphone. It was just like him.

"Hey, Mr. Moseby, it's Cody. I'm down at the in…" my shoulders dropped, my voice wavered. I wasn't _there_ there, and I hated it. And I hated the fact I was anywhere near here in the first place. What was _wrong_ with Zack? I cleared my throat and forged on, "At the infirmary, and I can't sign this form for Zack. I would appreciate it if you could come down here when you're available and complete it for me. Thanks."

Snapping the phone shut, I dropped it on the bench beside me and stared straight through the paper for a long moment.

Where had my day gone? How had I ended up here, waiting on a stupid bench to find out if my stupid brother was alright? What had happened? A nail?

I groaned again, shaking myself from my thoughts. I glanced at my watch.

Seriously!

_1:57 PM_

Five minutes? _Five_? I buried my face in my hands, breathing deeply. Time was dragging its feet as it slowly passed, and yet I also felt that too much time had passed.

It had been about fifteen minutes since Zack had passed out, and my nerves were shot. I was on edge and I was having trouble curbing my impatience, my agitated restlessness. It had been too much time, and yet time inched by so agonizingly slow.

Those minute hands, I had never thought so much about as I was right now. Why did my tense heart feel as though I had been gone from my brother's side too long? Because I was worried and confused and I didn't understand what had happened or why, or what any of it meant.

I didn't know what was going on with my brother. And I had never been bothered so much by that fact as I was being perturbed by it now.

"_You only get just one time around, you only get one shot at this,  
>One chance to find out the one thing that you don't wanna miss,<br>One day when it's all said and done, I hope you see that it was enough,  
>This one ride, one try, one life to love" -33 Miles<em>

-0-

**Author's Note:** I have to say that...I forgot what I was going to say here. Stupid allergies, runny/stuffy nose, and medicine, along with the late night and the track record of bad nights of sleep for several nights...yeah, I really am not thinking straight. I think I wanted to point out that "Grandmamma" is the way Cody refers to their mother's mother, and "Grandpappa" is the way he refers to their mother's father. About Zack's cabin number: I was told (by this site called something to the effect of Suite Life Wikia) that the number in the story is Zack's cabin number. If it's wrong, I'm sorry. Also, Zack's height is what imdb claims is Dylan's height (which _is _two inches shorter than the height listed for Cole). And I think that's it...

I do not remember if I used any unusual words (I mean, words I do not see used very often), so no vocabulary this time...unless someone points out a word I missed. I could go back and re-read, but it's late, I'm late, this is late, I've got to get to bed...etc, etc, etc...

So, the usual... What do you think might happen next? What might you like to see happen (hey, it might spark some ideas and get the writing going even better—you never know!)? What popped out at you? What about the history we got given, like anything particular about that? And yes, I am just trying to think of some random questions that might help with writing a review, if I can get the gears in your head turning...

Thanks for dropping by for the next installment! We appreciate it! And in the words of Spock's father (what's his name again?), "I must have your thoughts." Will you share them with me? Yes? No? We shall see! Okay, until next time...


	10. Everybody Fooled

Falling Through the Cracks  
>by <strong>Aimme<strong>,  
>with touches by <strong>My Note Book<strong>

**Summary: **His mask was flawless. His walls were perfectly structured. Protection and cautionary containment at its finest. Even a perfect pretend held fractures, though, and no matter how strong his glue, under the right circumstances, glue cracked and had to be gutted and filled in again.

**Author's Note:** Whew. Writing has been a pain in the...brain recently. Care to know how this chapter was written? The entire end part...I finished not even two hours ago. Yeah. Fun. Part of the reason this evening is late, again. If the quality is poor in places, my deepest apologies. It was not, necessarily, that this chapter was hard to write as opposed to simply running out of time. I had intended to get a lot of writing done this weekend...nope, I had other things going on all weekend long.  
>Anyway, we hear from someone different in this chapter, and the writing is in present tense. How different is that? Yeah, it wanted to be that way...well, the character wanted to be that way, and so I had to keep the consistency.<p>

**BlackKeys96**, first off, thank you. And you are welcome! Whether Cody is having doubts or not, or what exactly is going through his head, we shall see. It does seem likely that he is, doesn't it? And I am glad you felt we got Zack's character spot on, with the information about his actions over the divorce. Thanks! And once more, the flashback—thank you again. Intensity was something I was aiming for. I am glad you could feel it. As for the look on Zack's face—eventually, we shall see. One chapter at a time, I suppose. It may not be in this story, but definitely one an upcoming one, if not. I don't plan on going anywhere soon! I don't know when Moseby will hear the voicemail, sometime after his other phone calls, I'm sure. And I wanted to apologise about last week—you said you were afraid I wouldn't update. Sorry about that. I didn't get home until late, and then I had some...family issues...that had to be dealt with. Family meeting, pow-wow, kind of thing. Once that was all straightened out, I came as quickly as I could to update. I pushed it last week, didn't I? I was a few minutes before midnight, it seemed... and again I am tonight.

Also, our **anonymous reviewer **(you should know who you are), we wanted to thank you for reviewing! Your review was appreciated, and I was so overjoyed to receive it! And I think it is neat that you see Zack similarly.

On to the chapter, since that is what you have all come here for...

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Chapter Ten - Everybody Fooled

-0-

"_Without the mask, where will you hide?  
>Can't find yourself lost in your lie" -Evanescence<em>

It had already been a bad day. Like always. For you see, every day around here was bad. Horrible. Stomach empt—Never mind. Sub-par employment, snotty people, and boring hours. That is what I mean. This job isn't what it used to be.

However, to get to where I am heading with this, I must start at the beginning. And the beginning would be paper sorting.

You heard me.

Paper sorting.

Excited yet? No? Bear with me.

I was sorting through files, making sure everyone (mostly, students and staff) were up to date on their shots, such as the tetanus shot, or that my records were current with explanations, etc. Of course my files were accurate, everyone was up to date—I make sure every day. I pride myself in assuring all of my bases are covered. Less issues that way.

However, this is boring enough work, right? Add on top of that, during a well-deserved break, I look up from my book on psychology and the way it pertains -has an affect on- the body, and I see _those_ two boys walk through the door, and more specifically, I see _him_. I was mad.

I have my sneaking suspicions about that boy. The older one, right? Yeah, right.

For you see, I watch him. And I know something isn't right with him. Oh, don't get me wrong. He does well at hiding. Very well. But I know something haunts him. I catch glimpses of it, after all others have turned away. I am the only one who notices these things, because I am the only one actually looking. I do not know what it is, I never know, but I know something is there. Something dark and dangerous and lasting, something that weighs on him and darkens those laughing eyes, breaks those proud shoulders, and lets his whole bright countenance fall.

He has the look of someone deeply unsettled, deeply bothered. He has the look of someone haunted.

And my suspicions were confirmed when they walked through that door and I saw him. I saw the blood on his T-shirt, the drained look leaving his face pale, the terror eating at the younger one. Oh, yes, I knew.

His song and dance routine seems to be perfected, and no one gives even a thought to the life he parades to them as maybe being something else or something more than what they have taken it for granted as. He is a masked hider, and he plays everyone well, like the violins they let themselves be for his talented fingers.

Except for me. He does not have me played, but what do I matter in his scheme of thinking? For him, I do not exist as someone who could slip past his defences. For him, I hold little to no significance. And he is correct.

He does not think I saw, but I did. He is unaware someone knows, but I do.

I see things that nobody else sees. Things that I have to look for. Things that would scare other people to see. I see these things because I know what I am looking for, and I was watching when no one else was—that is when his mask shakes, the tiniest bit, his defences tremble, and what he hides peeks through: these slip ups are because he needs to breathe, and when he breathes, his guard falls for a moment so he can catch another breath.

You must be observing, and when everyone else turns away, you can catch it. What is it? I do not know.

I do know it is something deep, something dark. Something that has latched onto his soul, dug into his heart -a heart, I suspected, which was tattered and worn and broken- and eats away at him. It is obvious to my eyes…but I observe when no one else does.

My eyes have seen past the filtering mask, into the vague murk and mire of him. It is not clear—far from it. It is much like a fog inside of him, but there it is. He is not the clear-cut definition they have for who he is; he is not the picture they see and accept for his face. It is not his. It is a mask.

I know, because I identify it.

Why am I the only one who does this—the one who observes him like this until it is clear that the idea they have of him is not fitting and that he is a confused and confusing bog inside? I do not know why.

I know he has friends, friends who care about him -how deeply, I cannot say, for their knowledge of him is slim at best- but something holds him back. This mask of his. This mask of determination to keep everyone else out of what haunts him at night, what breaks him down and plagues him to where he hides by day and tosses, awake, unable to sleep, by night.

There are two schools of thought: one, that there are far too many words one could use to describe it; two, that there are not any -or enough- words to describe it.

I disagree with both—or, rather, I prefer a gentle blend of both. While there could be an insane amount of verbiage used to describe it -or hundreds of words to expand and expand upon a meaning- or there could be a speechlessness making all of our words useless or inadequate, there is a simple way of putting this. There are words to describe it, and for some -for me- there are minute ways which will suffice.

He is good.

These three words sum up my observances of him. His charade is tailored to perfection, it is true. And he is exceedingly efficient at what he does.

I do not doubt he has had a lot of time to be sure of what he does. Knows how to hide it all behind his mask, a mask so well-known everyone believes it to be the real him, his one true face. Ha! What a hoot, eh? They do not see when that "face" cracks, because in reality it is a mask. And it cannot always hold up under the pressures he faces. What pressures? Ah! See, only he could tell one that. I wish anyone luck in getting it out of him. He has had a lot of practice, and he will not unveil himself so easily, so utterly.

Aye, but for all of his walls and mask -the layers designed to keep people far enough back that he still feels protected- his cope is not perfect. Oh, but it is exceptional.

Exceptional in how well-built and structured it is, but it is far from being suitable. It is the kind of exceptionally proficient which is scary good for people who know what they are looking for. He is so adept, his mask so well kept, that no one else knows it is even there. Except for those who are observing from a distance when all others have turned away.

And so, when I looked up and saw _him_, saw the blood pandering to the suspicions which are mine, I was mad. And with good reason.

Now, after forcefully manhandling his terror-stricken brother from the room -his brother is a little wretch when he gets worry in mind- and locking the door lest he try to come back in (I would put nothing past any of these young ones these days), I release an aggravated sigh as I march back over to the eldest's unconscious form. What the devil manner of ill-conceived, senseless rot has he done to himself?

He is stirring as I approach; eyes blink blearily, a frown furrows his brows, and his disjointed connection with reality is obvious.

Aye, the wretch that he is, he has landed in over his head this time, has he not?

He shifts as I kneel beside him. "You best move slowly, now," I say, gripping his shoulder gently.

He blinks and looks up, confusion marking his face, his bleary eyes do not appear entirely focused on specific objects, his attention sporadic.

"Up, slowly now, that is."

He nods after a moment and his gaze drops away as he shifts, getting his hands and knees under himself and sitting up.

"Now to your feet." _'…if you can manage,'_ I tack on silently.

I help him to his feet, where he sways for only a brief second before I can feel his muscles steel, a resolve of his will embodying itself in his body. _'He is a wilful child,'_ I note, but he does not have his bearings yet and so I do not let go of him. I keep an arm around his shoulders and a grip on his left arm as I help him out of the reception area and into the patient's room.

He remains silent, but my long years of expertise -clinical and jaded though it is- senses his disorientation—his mind must surely be in a hazy state as it still fights off the unconsciousness that had stolen over him what was only a minute and 25.6 seconds ago.

I lead him to the infirmary bed, helping him to settle before I grab his arm to see what this is all about. As soon as he thinks I am not looking, I see, out of the corner of my eyes, that he casts a glance around the room with a wary look, but I catch in his eyes a brief look for something more. For his brother, whom I know he is looking around for as well, I am sure. His cursory, cautious scope of the room ends with him letting out a small sigh.

I focus back on the cut. I poke around it and he winces, fisting his hand. I prod around the area, exploring the damage, but my eyes catch on other pale, white marks which are revealed to my scrutiny and a frown mars my face.

My suspicions are confirmed.

He is a two-faced liar, and everybody is his fool.

"_I know the truth now  
>I know who you are ...<br>It never was and never will be ...  
>And somehow you've got everybody fooled" -Evanescence<em>

-0-

***Zack's POV***

_Behind your filtering mask, there is more,  
>The vague murk and mire of your very core,<br>Deep in your soul, with windows shuttered to the world,  
>Your eyes look out, but never let back in,<br>And all of your truth is a shadow of your lies,  
>It swallows you up deep inside,<br>Behind your defences, you hide out but never let in,  
>And you play all like violins,<br>You have everybody fooled again_

I wake slowly, but I do not open my eyes. My head, which feels horrible and slightly dizzy (alright, _really_ dizzy), pounds with a drawn blank. Where am I? What has happened? What have I gotten myself into this time? I have so many questions without answers.

Then I remember. I remember everything as it comes flooding back to me.

The conversation I overheard, the closet, the euphoria and danger of the pain, being caught, bloody and undone and marred with my truths and lies—memories flood back into my pounding head, increasing the ache gathered within my skull and within my gouged heart. I recall being dragged to the infirmary by a very angry little brother, telling Cody lies until they were over my head, feeling sick and fainting—oh.

That explains why I am on the floor. For surely the hard surface beneath me, with the roughness scratching my cheek (_'That would be the carpet,'_ my brain mutters abstractedly), is the floor.

I fainted after we got to this-this-this _place_. This place they claim will help you. I have never thought so.

'_Want to try getting up, mister I've-got-it-all-together?'_ that stupid Voice mocks sweetly, condescension enthused in every honeyed word.

I might as well try to get up, I reason, so I blink my eyes lazily, but blurry shapes swirl around for a moment as they adjust. Yeah, I am right. There is a carpeted floor beneath my face. How lovely.

I frown. As I open my bleary eyes, I feel someone beside me. _Cody? _I want to ask, but the name dies before it can make it out of my lips as I hear the person speak.

"You best move slowly, now."

Nurse Moustache.

She grabs my shoulder and I try not to panic beneath the grip.

Why isn't Cody here, though? Why isn't he the one who is here helping me get back up, picking me back up when I fall instead of this-this-this _inhuman_ being?

I know why, though. I should not question, but I do. I don't like the knowledge, but I have it. I don't like what it is, but it is.

He acts like he cares when he really doesn't, not really. And he acted earlier like he did, and then he left me here all alone.

I should have known—I _did_ know. So why did I harbour the slightest bit of hope that he would have stayed here with me? He wanted nothing more than to get the farthest away from me as was possible, all the time.

He never comes around unless I have something he wants.

Like comfort after his break-up with Bailey. Like when he needs a soundboard for all of his rants about how unreasonable Bailey is. Like having someone to go to for him to unload on all of his tirades about the destruction of the environment, how much he hates his job, about how the ship does not have a suitable lights-off-at-certain-hours program or the school a suitable biology lab.

Like having someone to gloat to about his better grades, his brighter future, and his higher intellect.

Spastic.

"Up, slowly now, that is," the nurse's voice interrupts my thoughts, bringing me partially back to reality, to the here and now.

'_What is this?'_ My confusion whispers in my mind.

She is being nicer to me than normal, nicer than I have ever seen her be to anyone…ever. She is _helping_ me up, instead of what I expect—to be told to get up all by myself and then being left there completely, to do as commanded.

'_Wait there, you blight. She's just doing her job, that is all. Clinical obligation, and all that professional stuff. She doesn't __care__ about you. Duh. Nobody does. __Especially__ Cody__." _I hate that Voice, but somehow it is always right.

I nod, the slightest bit, and focus my attention instead on putting my hands and knees underneath me to lever myself into a sitting position.

"Now to your feet," Nurse Moustache instructs, and helps me rise to my feet, where a rush of vertigo flies into my head. Tough. It cannot control me.

I take charge of myself again, forcing my body to obey my command. Forcing myself to work through the dizziness and pass it by.

Forcing myself to ignore the ache that pangs again, like the problematic little wimp it is, inside of me.

Nurse Moustache keeps a grip around my shoulders and on my arm, directing me into the next room. I focus on my feet and on walking, ignoring the bile in my throat and the fear that would consume me again.

I hate this place.

My head pounds in time with my heart, feeling as though it might hammer its way out of my skull. Good thing I have a thick head, huh?

Cloudy mind would darken if I let it, but I have to fight the vertigo and the panic attack. I have to. I have to fight to regain my senses, my internal balance…my mask.

Nurse Moustache leads me to the infirmary bed, with its stupid starched sheets and stupid hard mattress.

Too bad I already mentioned I hate this place.

I settle and she grabs my arm, her attention zeroing in on the cut I had inflicted upon myself. I look away, casting my eyes around the room.

There are evil looking instruments and more of my demons waiting to haunt me. I swallow.

Where is Cody?

The last vestige of my hope that maybe he was there, simply hovering out of sight while Nurse Moustache did her job, is crushed.

It is an empty room over her shoulder.

Empty, yet full with all the fears that are determined to bleed me dry…that is, if I don't do it to myself first.

'_Like you would, coward.'_

I sigh.

The nurse pokes at the wound, tender flesh and sensitive nerves. I cannot hide a wince.

I notice that her eyes narrow for a moment as she examines my arm, and I have just enough time to begin to panic over the look before she releases me and turns away. She walks across the room to retrieve antiseptic and cotton swabs from their shelves.

Restless energy is gathering in the pit of my stomach as I force away every ounce of panic that I possibly can.

'_Why should you? It is not like you __don't__ have anything to panic over. You are alone -however fittingly- and broken -that's your own wretched fault, you idiot- and all of your demons shall never forsake you…they are the __only__ ones who do not and who will not. Fantastic, eh?'_

I ignore the way my heart is smote by the words, for my haunting Voice is right. Always, _always_ right. I cannot escape it.

Nurse Moustache returns, pulling up a stool and sitting in front of me. She dabs antiseptic onto the cotton swab and grabs my arm.

This time, I nearly flinch back when she does, but I manage to hide it. What does it matter? I have nothing to fear from her.

'_Tell yourself that all you want, weakling.'_

'_Stop it. She doesn't __know__ anything. She'll patch up my arm and I can leave, and that will be it. I can survive in here that long.'_

She begins to wipe the wound, and I try to breathe in. Then…

"You're a clever boy, Mr. Martin," Nurse Moustache's shrewd tone accentuates her words powerfully. Her meaning is clear.

I swallow hard as my eyes widen. My heart rate explodes.

_She knows._

_What is that look in your eyes?  
>I see there is something else<br>What is the truth behind your lies?  
>I see that who you are is not yourself<br>What is your life if all of it is a charade?  
>A plastic, empty bottle, a dime a dozen,<br>Tell me, can you control the mess you've made?  
>You're losing all sanity, reason, substance within<em>

-0-

**Author's Note: **Uh...filler chapter? No. It wasn't intended to be. But the plans for the next chapter had to be in a completely separate chapter all by itself, and when I post next week I will explain why. This chapter was fun to write, though. I liked getting into Nurse Hatchet's head. She was a lot of fun to write. She is a jaded woman, prickly and all, but beneath that, her heart still beats somewhere. She just doesn't pay attention to it.  
>If I messed up on the tenses in any places, I am really sorry. I tried hard to assure I did not, but I ran out of editing time...especially on Zack's part (which was all written this evening, like within the last hour to hour and a half).<p>

By the way, in Nurse Hatchet's scene, did anyone catch my "knock off" hail to the Sprouse twins? It's an "expression" I have heard them use in interviews, but I may be the only one who would catch it...

Also, owlhero, I wanted to thank you for giving me one of the lines in Zack's part. I think you can find which one. It is in the third paragraph of his part and it is something you said in the review you left on the first chapter.

I am not sure I have any questions this time... What did you think? What did you like? Any suggestions, thoughts, constructive criticism? I would love to hear any thoughts you feel worth sharing!

Vocabulary:

verbiage - (1) **excess of words:** _an excess of words that add little or nothing to the meaning_

cope - _You will not find this in your dictionary the way I have used it. I have taken the verb, _**cope**_, and used it as a noun. I...nounified it?_ [Cope - (v) **handle something successfully: **_to deal successfully with a difficult problem or situation_]

enthused - _past and past participle of_ **enthuse**—enthuse - (2) **say with enthusiasm: **_to express enthusiasm about something or say something enthusiastically_

spastic - (2) **offensive term: **_an offensive term meaning lacking physical coordination or the ability to perform competently_ (_dated_)

gouged - _part and past participle of_ **gouge**—gouge - (1) **carve out hole: **_to cut or scoop a hole or groove in something, usually using a sharp tool_

blight - (1) **destructive force: **_something that spoils or damages things severely_

Thanks for stopping by for this installment! I will get hard to work on the next chapter...let's all hope I manage better this week and have my ducks in a row more next Wednesday evening._  
><em>


	11. A Lot That is Known

Falling Through the Cracks  
>by <strong>Aimme<strong>,  
>with touches by <strong>My Note Book<strong>

****Summary:**** His mask was flawless. His walls were perfectly structured. Protection and cautionary containment at its finest. Even a perfect pretend held fractures, though, and no matter how strong his glue, under the right circumstances, glue cracked and had to be gutted and filled in again.

**Author's Note**: Ai, well... my writing plans have officially been frustrated by the writing itself. This chapter was not at all what I intended it to be...and what I mentioned of it in the last chapter's ending author's note does not apply to this chapter at all...but rather chapter 12. I intended for this chapter to be longer and, even, different. Then it took its own liberties and I ran out of time, again. I like what is here, and the conversation herein I am very pleased with...I am just feeling a bit vexed that for the past several weeks, my plans haven't been completed on time. I need to call my agent and have a long discussion about my schedule...

**BlackKeys96**, indeed that age-old line is very true of her. And I enjoyed getting inside her head, but I do not know if that will go anywhere. I do not know if we shall hear from her again. For me, seeing how easily he convinces himself of these things is scary—because I know it is real, and I know it happens. All too often. And that you are feeling something for him, your heart breaking for his crushed hopes, etc.—that is a most excellent sign! I hope that, even though this week's chapter wasn't all I had intended last week for it to be, that it doesn't disappoint. I appreciated your review, as always! Your reviews are always a delight to read.

**The Unknown**, great to hear from you! (Are you our anonymous reviewer from chapter nine?) I am glad you loved what happened in the last chapter! And that this chapter meets the excitement fittingly. I cannot say what the readers will think... As for the reference, kudos for catching it! Nope, it was not a coincidence. I intentionally slipped that in, as a sort of hail to the Sprouse twins since they brought these characters, whom we love so dearly, to life.

And now, onward...

-0-

Chapter Eleven - A Lot That is Known

-0-

"_Things are going crazy and I'm not sure who to blame. Everything is changing and I don't feel the same. I'm slipping through the cracks of floors I thought were strong. I'm trying to find a place where I feel like I belong." -unknown_

Silence rang, thick and unsettled. It filled his mind, but unspoken meanings, which sink in deeper and heavier in his gut, carrying the echoes of a communication that surpassed the seemingly innocuous words that were spoken, captured his attentions. His thought process was replete with it, and as he struggled to make sense of all the implications and the revelation given, he could hardly think straight.

Even though he was sitting, a rush of vertigo assaulted his senses. His heart was, once more, beating too fast, too hard as it poised precariously on a knife-edge.

Nurse Hatchet released his arm, and a part of him felt relieved, but his cornered feeling hardly lessened. He felt trapped and held, and this was a condition he never coped well with. There were times he could handle tight places, but here, he felt claustrophobic and the phobia was opening the doors for the panic attack that he had become susceptible to and he had been struggling to prevent, avoid, keep at bay.

He hoped it would not pounce him, but the fear that it was coming and the trepidation of that hounded his senses.

He watched her every move like a hawk, his body tense and his nerves on edge. His very being had gathered into a tight ball, ready to bolt. Far away, very, very far away. His whole body was on the edge of the bed, awaiting on the precipice of fleeing the room as fast as he could.

As she opened a cupboard and removed a swath of cotton gauze, her voice sliced through him.

"Do you find this to be acceptable behaviour, Mr. Martin?" Sharp, pointed, cynical—and, for reasons he could not identify, that scathing tone cut him to the core. Her voice dripped with disdain, disgust, and in a far corner of him, he felt a hint of shame rustle, but he felt dread far more strongly.

He could not answer.

When she turned back, her dark, jaded gaze pierced straight through him and his breathing hitched. He fought the strong waves of anxiety washing over him, determined to drag him down where he would suffocate on his own terror.

She stalked back over to the bed, seeming to him to be the picture of a menace on the prowl. He watched her with wide eyes, full of a fear he could scarce contain, let alone fight against. He remained too shaken to summon nonchalance, knowing that his charade was known to her.

"Very well," she intoned -for he had not answered her question- as she returned to him, but as she reached for him, he unconsciously jerked back. She withdrew, giving him a searing look. "Contrary to any belief circulating of my dubiousness, I am an adroit caregiver—and I most certainly am not out to get you."

Suddenly infused with self-consciousness, he dropped his gaze and murmured sheepishly, "Sorry."

She did not comment further, her shrewd gaze recognising that the disturbed young man before her was on edge. She held out her hand and he slowly placed his arm into it, his movements deliberate and done with a great effort of his will to overcome his own feelings of being trapped and nervous and jumpy.

In silence she returned her attention to the wound she knew he had inflicted upon himself, and he fidgeted for a moment before clearing his throat. "Uhm…what…what does adroit mean?" he asked, his voice dropping off in his own hesitance to utter his question. He swung his left foot back nervously, kicking a rung under the mattress he sat on.

She glanced at him from the tops of her eyes, peering up at him from beneath her thin eyebrows and frizzy brown hair. He avoided her hazel gaze immediately, an embarrassed look flitting across his face.

Mentally slapping himself for asking the question, he tried to keep from fidgeting beneath the gaze that flickered up to him upon the utterance of a question which implied that there was a spark of intelligence flickering in his mind. Granted, she knew he _wasn't_ what he let on, but revealing that he was _more_ than he let on? He should have let the question alone, instead of feeding it and giving out under the weight with which it hung in his mind.

She made a 'hmm' sound in the back of her throat as she dropped her gaze away, and his gut twisted tightly.

'_Idiot. You shouldn't have done that. You've done enough damage, already—do you want to make it worse? Why don't you just go shout all of your truth from the top deck so that all the boat can hear you?'_

Self-deprecating. He recognised that Voice when he heard it, but he didn't refute it. He sunk silently into his dread, a cold knot eating away at his insides.

"You are indeed more than meets the eye, aren't you?" as she dabbed antibiotic ointment onto the cut, she spoke at last, but her words did not assuage the uneasy dismay yanking, coiling, tightening in him. There was just enough time for her question to feed his edgy nerves before she continued. "Adroit means skilful."

And he settled again, put at ease when the subject dropped quietly and nonchalantly away.

As Nurse Hatchet laid the gauze strip against the treated wound, silence descended with it among them. The quiet left both of them to their own thoughts—Zack to his demons and the darkening thoughts awaiting him, and the nurse to her feelings about all of it. While the oldest twin felt a constant murmur eating away at his heart, the Voices rustling, waiting to articulate coherent thoughts determined to douse him in their suffocating fire, the rough-edged woman pondered how long this had been going on and wondered what had happened the first time that made him feel this was the only way out—and whether anyone else knew…but she doubted it very much.

She was the first to break the silence, which Zack was not at all happy about. He wanted her to finish and let him go, and he wanted her to then forget everything she knew about him.

"And what, Mr. Martin, is your story?" she asked with a shrewd jab bating her words.

He swallowed hard, letting his gaze drop away as she raised her eyes to look pointedly at him in anticipation of a response. He struggled to find the words…but there were none. How did she see so clearly, so easily through him? Of all people, _Cody_ should be the one able to do that—and Cody was the one who was the _most_ fooled.

"Your obstinate brother -that Tasmanian devil in skin-and-bones disguise- will have needed an explanation. And what is your story?" She knew he had a cover-up, an alibi, and she wanted to know what tall tale he had spun this time.

He shrugged unconvincingly, refusing to make eye contact. "N-nothing. Nothing. It was an accident," his voice was quiet, but grew firm as he spoke the words. He _knew_ it was a lie. But who cared what he knew? It had made little difference before, and it wasn't about to make any difference any time soon. He wouldn't let it. He couldn't let it.

She released an aggravated sigh, shaking her head disdainfully. "An accident?" she scoffed. "An _accident_, Mr. Martin?"

The obvious note of disgust hit a nerve.

"_This_" -she held his arm up for example- "is _hardly_ an _accident_!" the last word she bit off with intense scorn.

He bristled. "What do you know?" he snapped. "What makes you think you know _anything_?" The defensiveness lent a harsh note to his tone.

"I know a lot of things," she answered in a strict tone, unmoved by his insolence—the way he was lashing out.

"A lot that is known isn't worth knowing," he shot back bitterly, blue eyes as violent storms flashing with a cynic's jaded disillusionment.

"Touché," she returned, "Indeed, well said, Mr. Martin. We are at an impasse, then. Let us agree on a truce, for we shall get nowhere." She regarded him with a hard, dark look, one he returned staunchly. "But perhaps there is a lot that _is_. Worth knowing, that is."

However, her own jaundiced view shaded her tone and did not lend credence to her words. They felt empty, pathetic, useless—even to her. And he would pick up on it—the boy was quick as a whip, sharp intellect grasping more than he let on.

He snorted, barely audible, but the scoff communicated to her. She issued a spurious, grim smile, shook her head and turned her attentions back to what had brought him here in the first place -what had revealed him to her suspicious eyes- and as she wrapped the gauze firmly around his arm once and taped it into place, she offered no further exchange on the topic.

When she had finished, she dropped his arm and stood up. "If you would sit tight for a few minutes, I have a few tests I want to run."

A shade of colour dropped away from his face, leaving pallor in its place. "Tests?" he questioned, giving her a suspicious, searching look.

"Yes. Tests." Feeling particularly edgy after everything that had happened, she felt like being particularly vague.

Was it tormenting him? Perhaps.

If she had known the _way_ it tormented him, though, perhaps she would not have been so vague. As it was, she did not know how he had spent the entire time in the infirmary wrestling with the darkness in the corners, the demons lurking in the shadows, the Voices determined to escalate into coherent taunts inside his head.

As she walked away to retrieve God-knows-what, Zack's heart became a drunk driver—weaving around everywhere with jerky, uncoordinated movements. He felt sick and he wondered how long he had been in here—it felt like forever.

It had been fifteen minutes.

"_Give me a reason to keep believing that everything isn't misleading … 'Cause I'm a tear drop away from crying and a few breaths away from dying." -unknown_

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**Author's Note:** Well...what now? The ending here came about unexpectedly for me, but I quite liked it once I hit that final period. And then the quote...ah, the quote! I shall say no more... Do I dare ask for your thoughts? Yes, I suppose I dare. What do you suppose I am leading up to? Do you think I know? Any guesses about the next chapter? It may have been a short chapter, but what about Zack did we learn in this one? I found several tidbits to be most interesting...and they have made me even more curious.

Vocabulary:

adroit - **skillful: **_displaying physical or mental skill_

jaundiced - _(adj.) from noun _**jaundice**—jaundice - (2) **cynical state of mind: **_an attitude that is characterized by cynical hostility, resentment, or suspicion_

spurious - (1) **not genuine: **_different from what it is claimed to be, not authentic, or not valid or well-founded_


	12. Suicide, Suicide

Falling Through the Cracks  
>by <strong>Aimme<strong>,  
>with touches by <strong>My Note Book<strong>

****Summary:**** His mask was flawless. His walls were perfectly structured. Protection and cautionary containment at its finest. Even a perfect pretend held fractures, though, and no matter how strong his glue, under the right circumstances, glue cracked and had to be gutted and filled in again.

**Author's Note**: I have been waiting so many weeks and chapters to get to this one! (That is going to sound so bad when you get to reading it...) I had trouble (again) with this chapter; I could not seem to write it. I was writing, but I did not feel like it was taking off. Monday a flash of brilliance about _how _to write it came to me. I had to rewrite what I had already, but at least it got the chapter done, right? I knew what I wanted in it, but I could not seem to get it until I decided to try it this way. Also, I have a Rube Goldberg machine in this chapter (one of the harder parts to write, let me tell you), and Zack uses a form of a Rube Goldberg machine in _A London Carol_. Does anyone know what a Rube Goldberg machine is? Does anyone know without looking it up? If it is a "no" at this moment, you probably will not be able to say that again... (Well, that is, if you look it up, but hopefully I have gotten you curious enough to do that so you can recognise it in the chapter...)

**First warning:** I have never written in this form before! So if there are mistakes, please excuse them. If it seems choppy, I think it is because of the mindset behind the thoughts (narrative)—I do not blame choppiness here on the writing itself...

**Tiger002**, I took your suggestion and gave it a whirl.

**BlackKeys96**, thank you so much! That meant a lot that you thought the chapter was still amazing! Zack continuing to try to keep up his act after she has seen through is interesting. I would say it is definitely second-nature to him, and at this point, he is so far in he has too much trouble distinguishing his truth(s) from his lies, he is too weak, tired to refute things and say (as Wyntirsno put it), "No, that's not me." And it is very plausible it is much like a scape-goat for him (you meant scape-goat, right—not "escape goat"?). To have brought you from disgust with or -at least- apathy for Nurse Hatchet to respect for her bespeaks very highly of the writing. That is very complimenting, so I thank you. Will she tell Cody or hint to him? I do not know entirely; we shall see! His Voices are indeed, always trying to make him see the worst in himself. It keeps him down, keeps him within that dark power. What other place would it be required of him to be? Ah, it is very dangerous, indeed. I am sorry to hear you were sick! I trust you are better now. Be well, friend, and I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as the previous ones even though it is...well, you shall see.

**(Chapter) Warning: **This chapter is _dark._ Or, at least, I fear it has the potential to be. Thus, to be on the safe side, _for this chapter only_, the rating shall be a T+ or, more likely, an M. For younger readers or the weak in heart, proceed with caution (or skip this chapter all together if you feel you should not read it or you get into it and you realise it would not be a good idea to continue reading it), but do not say I did not warn you! It is an M for dark themes, not for any other reason. Please see further notes at the bottom...

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Chapter Twelve - Suicide, Suicide

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"_Suicide, suicide  
>Your presence is near<br>Suicide, suicide  
>I wish you were here<br>Suicide, suicide  
>Take me away<br>Suicide, suicide  
>Please make it today<br>Suicide, suicide  
>An answer, for me<br>Suicide, suicide  
>I need to escape, be free"<br>-(Suicide) Lisa French_

'_Bless her, but she is a hag, isn't she? Like those ones from that story Daddy once read? Nah, you probably don't remember all that well…then again, one might have to suppose you do. You do, after all, have a record of sentimental hogwash stored, deeply buried, in that useless head of yours, right?'_

It may seem outwardly strange, but he will definitely give that Voice a frown, like he did when others insinuate something negative against him. Then again, anyone who may see him would have to assume his look will direct its displeasure at the nurse and her ominous announcement, one which will set him back on edge. She has reiterated herself as a horror in his mind when she spoke those words, and he will wish with every ounce of his energies to bolt.

'_Well, what are you waiting for? Coward…'_

The jab, the taunt, will end with the specific insult dropping into a whisper, to rustle softly at the edges of his attention.

He will shake himself, trying to dislodge the webs in his mind. He will reach for his control, his concentration, in an attempt to get back in command of himself, and as he does so, he will forcibly will away all that has been plaguing him—his shock, fear, the recently-arrived panic attack, and how he feels overwhelmed. He wants to peel away the memories, to silence the noise, and to put the brakes on his rushing free fall before he hits rock bottom and every last part of him shatters upon impact along with bringing his instantaneous death.

He has to get back into the control seat. He needs to. The only time he is really—_really_ allowed to lose control is when he is in that secret, hiding place of his. Hidden at the back of his closet, behind walls and doors and a lock if he is lucky, where he finds release from the pressures of still breathing and walking this heliocentric-orbiting terrestrial body. However, as soon as the torture he puts himself through has passed, he takes the control back from his pain.

And now, he will want to take a moment to allow himself to breathe again, because the pressure of not having a breath, steady and secure, wears at him as his bounce-back swings to the opposite extreme. He would think about everything that has happened; and that voice which taunts him will take on a new form. It will echo a memory as it skitters around outside of his grasp, his control, recalling loudly enough to ring in his ears.

He will close his eyes, and he will endure. His ears will ring as the memory will echo.

"_You could have __killed__ yourself!"_

While the terror and horror in the voice of his brother did not then and does not now leave much room for his reactive heart to disregard the way it calls him into account for the pain dealt to his younger counterpart, the voice of his resentment and exasperation scoffs at the insinuation.

For his twin -despite being that- is absolutely and utterly _wrong_, _uninformed_, and _blind_. With a wool over his eyes, how could he know any different? Yet, the implication that he knows what his older brother knows he _cannot_ is there and the silent inferring that a dull mind had not grasped that there was such a fatal _"could"_ looming grates and would stir a bitter, jaded jeer from his lips if he were so inclined to release such a spurious version of laughter.

His brother, for all of his flying colours, his flawless grades and nearly-perfect attendance record (a trip to the mall, anyone?), his numerous awards and being on track to graduate with every honour one could _possibly_ receive—for all of these under his belt, his brother does _not_ _know_ _anything_.

He has been at this long enough—he has learned enough—he knows what would be a cut and what would be a _fatal_ cut. He has been in this vicious cycle so long, but he is not in it without knowledge.

A horizontal cut -unless deep enough to slit a vein open and then left untended to drain his life away- would not so easily make his life over and done with. A vertical cut, however, along the length of the veins, those pale blue lines in the soft underbelly of his wrist, would blossom with deep, deep red pain which is determined to make him first light-headed with blood loss before he falls unconscious as his body shuts down his systems in an attempt to compensate, until at last he has bled his life out. _That_ would be an effective manner of ending his pathetic existence.

He could lock his door, lest anyone happen by at the most inopportune moment for his (_'…dastardly…'_) plans, and then he could slit his wrists proper and let his life-force flow out, gushing maroon and lighter red where it traced in little rabbit-trail chases over his skin, which would grow paler as he began to disappear from life. Let his consciousness fade away, as the pain recedes and his will diminishes and a (_'…spurious?…'_) peace steals over him. He would weep his last tears at first, then as his strength wanes, he would wipe them away and smile at their travesty with a sick grin.

He could bleed to death in his bathtub -slit his wrists, slice open the vital arteries in his thighs, slash open the vulnerable veins cradled in the tender creases of his elbows- and let that be the end of it all. His perfectly healthy blood would stain the porcelain-white of the bath, which was meant to wash away filth—and the last duty it would serve him would be to wash away the last of _his_ filth from this life, let it flow down the drain in red which would lighten to a pale pink as the last vestiges of him were cleaned away after the death had at last registered to the foolish with their fortunate blinders.

If he would take his life, he could go into his closet and hang himself up by his shoelaces, until his last breath has choked out from his ravaged throat and his lungs still, his head lolls and his skin turns to blue as the required oxygen fails him. What a surprise to whoever opens that blasted door to look into a place where he has nearly always kept his secrets.

There, and the bathroom. How appropriate then that his last secret would play out within the confines of their walls as he finalizes his suicide?

If he wants to shake things up, instead, he could always fling himself off the side of the ship when no one was looking -_'Like they always aren't…'_- and sink beneath the waves with leaden arms and legs because he has released every fight he has ever had. His body will disappear into the depths and his soul to who-knew-where, but he will be undone from all of this at last.

He could slit himself open first, and then do so. Sharks may feast on his flesh, but he would be dead and he will not care. Let the blind people he leaves behind deal with it. Nothing will be his problem anymore, and he will not be anyone's problem ever again. Would that not be fitting?

Sneaking into the ship's laundry room, he could easily lift a container of borax soap. He would have the option of being anywhere to die; simply ingest enough of it to be fatal and let it work. It will be a painful death, but does he not have that coming?

For a slow death, he could always use the walk-in freezer. He knows how to override the locking system, releasing the latch and shutting off the lasers. (He has heard the rumour of a polar bear guarding the entrance, but he also knows his brother was being facetious—poking fun at the extremes Mr. Moseby tends to exhibit to keep his version of order intact.) While there were safeties in place to prevent the door from closing and trapping someone in there, he also knows how to trick that.

Once inside, with the door locked behind him, he will sink into a corner, draw his legs up to his chest and wait for his demise. It will come slowly, but his blood will freeze and his skin will turn blue, icy to the touch and fragile as icicles, and he will die, with his ghostly breath still lingering tenaciously upon the still atmosphere of his frozen deathbed. And then like the rest of his life, he will match it—stagnant and stiffly unmoving in the frozen landscape of his shattered dreams.

There are stashes of pills in certain areas of the infirmary -prescription painkillers (like vicodin, OxyContin, etc.), various sedatives and sleep aids, antidepressants which are there for some students and staff who require them, and so on- and while they would always be monitored during the day, at night there is only an emergency line for the nurse on call and no one is in the infirmary. He can pick the lock, sneak in and take whatever method he wants.

He could take prescription painkillers and lift a bottle of liqueur from the bar on Deck 3, mixing the two until his danger is set into finality and he overloads his system sufficiently. He could mix either one or both with a sleep aid, stopping his heart effectively after he has drifted peacefully off to sleep—his eternal sleep, as the Ancient Greeks called death (See? He pays attention). Taking two or more different painkillers, sedatives, and antidepressants in conjunction would work, as well.

Or he could keep things simple and take a bottle -or two- of vicodin and simply overdose on _one_ drug. Imagine Cody's reaction as his brother's health steadily declines throughout the day. First, he would become weak, confused, and dizzy. His eyes will be pinpoint pupils as he dazedly, lethargically disregards everything. He will be cold and clammy to the touch, his breathing shallow and slow -pushing it if he takes even ten breaths a minute- and so tired he will start to nod off or possibly even pass out.

A sadistic grin will turn his lips as he thinks about it—for what if one of his symptoms is not only being nauseous and vomiting, but that he also has seizures? Perhaps that would be the best part, because that would be a symptom Cody could not explain away with the explanation of drunkenness -for he would believe that of his older brother without a second's hesitation, without a second's doubt or a second thought- and the terrorizing debilitation of being unable to come up with a satisfactory answer anymore will freeze his blood.

Cody will be terrified, but do you know what will be even sweeter than the seizures? The fact that, for once, he will not give one wit about it as the apathy will have stolen away his sensitivity to that weakness of his which is his little brother.

That is, if Cody has not abandoned him long before to sleep it off. In which case he will go to sleep and never wake up, and their last interaction would have been a dismissal for sleep after -supposedly- having had too much drink. If Cody has not done so and he has seizures, they would be on their way to an infirmary that could no longer help him…he will not let them, because he will have already have given up on having a will to survive.

He has stood out in the pouring rain, eyes unfocused as he folds his arms and drenches himself in the downpour. His mind wanders down paths as dark as the stormy black above him, the lightning throwing the world, with all of its harsh outlines and sharp edges, into stark perspective. The drench is so heavy that any tears that may track down his face are indistinguishable from the sorrow of the night—but there is not a soul around. Here, he ponders how easy it would be for him to use these storms for suicide.

It would not take much for him to come by a fake I.D., that he may sign his own health waiver, allowing him to parasail. And then he will do it in a storm as lightning-brilliant and danger-tossed as the ones he has stood in and pondered this darkness. It will save on funeral expenses, and that means he will not have found one more way to annoy or inconvenience his family even from beyond the grave. They would like that, right?

He has pondered the other variations of death from the mighty smiting of a storm or the fatality from harmful electric shocks. He could climb to the crow's nest to stand amidst the lightning and hope he is struck; he could use electricity -something everybody else thinks he is too empty-headed to know how to do- to his advantage and remove his pathetic life from the face of the planet by using electronics in water or sticking something metal into a live outlet. Let him be roasted to a crisp, until his skin turns leathery and the smell of burning is strong on him as the black and brown spots pockmark his body and make him look an awful sight—like his heart.

As a lovely gift to his family for Christmas, he could have hurled himself from the top of the Tipton. His blood would have stained the ground as his whole body became mangled from the fall, and the pallor of his skin against his green sweater would have blended with the red spreading across the white all around and his death would have matched the season befittingly. He would have looked like some kind of sick imitation of the holidays, but at least he could not be accused of being cheap in regards to his Christmas gifts—he would have given them the ultimate gift: his life no longer burdening theirs.

His mind has wandered many paths, and he knows how easy he can take himself out. With a fail-safe in some cases and thoroughly detailing his plan, all he would have to do is pick one and see it through.

Pandering his creative side, on a windy night, he would start by attaching a piece of string to the flag snapping on its pole outside Captain Lunceford's cabin on Deck 1. Around midnight, when the captain grows tired of listening to metal on metal as the flag swayed (for some reason, the captain keeps trying to sleep through it, even though he knows it will never work no matter how many nights he makes the attempt), he will stumble out of his cabin to lower the flag. This will pull a string, which will be attached at the other raised end to a lever which he has rigged so the string will bend it over to press the speed-dial on his phone to call his brother's cell.

The string will do its job and then come loose, allowing the captain to be none the wiser, while his brother's cell will begin ringing on the nightstand beside him. Jerking awake at the shrill ringtone it has been changed to without his knowledge, he will pick it up to see the display, and in exasperation see the caller id and give an aggravated groan at some perceived practical joke, while in reality lifting the phone had been a serious grievance.

Lifting the phone, from where it really rested against a miniature scale-size see-saw, unbalances the differing weights and the rounded, indented end in the air will fall, allowing the marble resting in it to fall out onto the nightstand, where two parallel lines of glued pencils will direct its path directly off the side and into the awaiting Mouse Trap basket. The weight of the marble -a deep blue shot through with a brilliant light blue in a myriad of swirls, a relic of a childhood gone by- will unbalance the plastic playing piece, dumping its contents onto the floor—the marble will knock over the first domino and set off the pattern he has led all around the room and then out the door.

The sleepily confused look on his brother's face might be priceless, but he will not be anywhere near to see it. Because, when the last domino is hit, it will be down the hall, across the walkway and over to the railing of the ship—it will be knocked over the edge and will land into a balancing scale hanging beneath. The domino will tip it, and the other end will raise, loosening the taut string attached to that side.

Several decks above, the other end of the string is attached to his ridiculously sharp pocket-knife. Another string is attached to it, pulled taut so that when the bottom side loosens, it will direct the knife down to neatly slice through another tightly-pulled string.

He will not be near his brother, because he will be laying on the Sky Deck beneath the anchor swinging precariously above him. When that string his knife cuts through is loosened, it drops the counterweight he has rigged to a rope attached to the anchor. The counterweight will drop, snap its own worn rope, and the anchor will be released.

In those last few seconds, his heart rate will accelerate and his breathing will be short and rapid, but he will not be able to move because he has tied his right wrist to a length of rope that runs over to the barstools at the Easy Squeezy and he has handcuffed his left wrist to a loop in another length of rope that is tied to the stairs.

The anchor will rush down towards him, and for one terrifying moment he will be filled with horror and then…blessed black; absolutely nothing. His body will have been crushed beyond recognition -blood splattered and flowing everywhere and his body is a boneless goo beneath the method of his suicide- but he will know no more.

If he wants something less involved, he can eat handfuls of straight soybeans, to which he is highly allergic and in high enough quantities (and without medical care) are fatal for him. He will assure it will be too late for anyone to do anything when someone finds out.

He could drown himself in the hot-tub by managing to get himself locked _in_ it. He will be trapped under the water when the lock is engaged on the lid, and he will be long dead before anyone finds out the next morning.

It is all so simple.

They say that you know someone is serious about suicide if they have a plan. He has plan after plan, with fail-safes and thorough details. All are within his realm of accomplishing.

"_You could have __killed__ yourself!"_

No. No, his brother didn't know _anything._ If he had wanted to kill himself, he would have done it a long time ago.

'_Maybe you should.'_

"_Suicide, suicide  
>I've had too much<br>Suicide, suicide  
>Take me, do your touch<br>Suicide, suicide  
>Leave the rest behind<br>Suicide, suicide  
>You're all over my mind<br>Suicide, suicide  
>Let me pass in peace<br>Suicide, suicide  
>I need to release"<br>-(Suicide) Lisa French_

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**Author's Note:** None of this is to encourage suicide. _Suicide is never the answer_. It only creates a more complicated problem; it only worsens things. Seriously, reader, if you suffer from suicidal tendencies or thoughts, do not wallow in that. There are some fantastic places to get help—Mercy Ministries, To Write Love on Her Arms, or the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline. If you are desperate enough to take your life, why can you not be desperate enough to talk to _someone_?

And that question could be a premise for an upcoming story. What do you think? Perhaps give a background to one of the above methods Zack has planned out? Perhaps not? Should I ponder that premise for a story?

And on that note, back to the chapter... I know there was a delicate topic, it was dark, and perhaps could make one squeamish in places, but what did you think? Are you all on pins and needles about next week's chapter? -smirk- Ah, next week's chapter... -zips lips about that- I tried a new form this time; I have never written in future tense, and I have hardly ever seen it done—so I could not research _how_ to do it. Did it create a surreal feeling to the chapter? Perhaps in the beginning where it was more prominent, before it got into all the things he could do to kill himself? I want your thoughts!

Also, my birthday is this weekend so that may or may not (probably will) effect my writing, thus I am not sure how much I will get done this week. I am not necessarily asking for permission to post a little later next week rather than on Wednesday... I am just throwing that into the mix, as, like I said, I am not sure how that will effect my writing and how much I will get done. I will strive my best to make sure I finish it on time, though!

(Some of these vocabulary words have been used before and explained, but they are here again so there is no confusion.)

Vocabulary:

hogwash - (1) **nonsense:** _worthless stuff or nonsense_

spurious - (1) **not genuine:** _different from what it is claimed to be, not authentic, or not valid or well-founded_

travesty - (1) **false representation:** _a distorted or debased version of something_

smiting - _present participle of_ **smite**—smite - (1) **hit somebody or something hard:** _to hit somebody or something with a hard blow (archaic or literary)_; (2) **affect or afflict somebody:** _to affect somebody strongly or disastrously, or afflict somebody with something (literary) (often passive)_


	13. These Are the Ways the Thoughts Possess

Falling Through the Cracks  
>by <strong>Aimme<strong>,  
>with touches by <strong>My Note Book<strong>

**Summary: **His mask was flawless. His walls were perfectly structured. Protection and cautionary containment at its finest. Even a perfect pretend held fractures, though, and no matter how strong his glue, under the right circumstances, glue cracked and had to be gutted and filled in again.

**Author's Note: **Like last chapter, this is one I have waited forever to get to, and though there were complications outside of writing with getting to write this during this last week, I had a good time writing this, seeing the way, as the chapter title says, the thoughts possess. I have never written in this form, either, and plus I have never tried to write the physical ailment that is in here like this before. Here's to hearing your thoughts! If the last chapter was dark, then this is intense...

**Anonymous Reviewer**, thank you! I was flattered and ecstatic when I read your review. I worked really hard on the last chapter, the tense, and so I was very happy to read your words. And I thank you for the compliment on my writing style! I think I want to see a squealing writing teacher full of glee now... :grins: I think Zack has had a lot of time to think about it; it hasn't been said yet, but I'm banking on it having been years. Thank you for the birthday wishes! And yes, in reference to Cody's nearly perfect attendance record, I was referring to the episode in the first series, called _What the Hey?_, wherein the twins miss the bus and Zack convinces Cody to ditch school and come hang out with him at the mall. Do not apologise! It was not too long. Too long? What is this? There is no such thing as a review that is too long! I enjoy hearing the thoughts of my readers as thoroughly as I can, so...I gobble up every word!

**BlackKeys97**, it was indeed disturbing. At times, I had to stop writing and go do something else or get up from the computer. And it is quite horribe to realise how many different ways there are, isn't it? And that he's pondered them! I like what you said, "he is smart, just not about the right things." I think this sums up some things very nicely! If it made you want to cry, then I have done my job—evoking an emotional response from my reader. I hope he pulls through, too, but you may not be so happy when you start reading this chapter... Wow? A favourite chapter? I am flattered! Thank you! I appreciate your kind words. Thanks for the birthday wishes, too. You feel like you got a present? Yeah, I kind of did that this year. It's a very hobbit thing to do, give gifts on your birthday. But I did that. I had a gift for my parents, which had all three of us crying, as they never saw it coming and I could scarcely believe it was real, that I had accomplished what I had. It was neat. Anyway...

Forward, to the story! Forward, to the angst! Let us go with all purpose, straightaway...

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Chapter Thirteen - These Are the Ways the Thoughts Possess

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_Fears whisper, and demons haunt, they scream  
>Yet my tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth<br>And my lips are frozen, hiding all that seems  
>To hold a grip on keeping me from being found out<em>

'_No. I'm not going to do that.'_

'_Why? Too scared?'_

'_No!'_

'_Oh yeah?'_

'_Yeah. I've got nothing to be afraid of, because I'm not going to do it.'_

'_Ha! That's a laughably pathetic way of justifying it. You are ridiculous.'_

'_I am not!'_

You try to fight back, convinced you have to wrestle free of the hands determined to drag you down.

'_Oh, stop denying it. Stop fighting it. You will never win.'_

'_I'm not fighting anything; there's nothing to fight.'_

'_I suppose you justify that by claiming there is nothing to fight because there is no threat. So why is fear chilling your heart?'_

'_That's not true.'_

'_Yes, it is. It grabs your heart, Zackary, and from there it runs its freezing fingers throughout your body with the assistance of your veins, those pathways for blood you are insistent upon wearing thin—that blood you are insistent on draining.'_

'_But I'm not.'_

'_Then what do you call this?'_

You look in listless silence, dispassionate indifference staking a claim on your mind, at the newest addition for your carefully hidden collection of scars.

'_I call that euphoria wrapped in danger, release wrapped in loneliness and despair. I call that you.'_

Your eyes fall, downcast.

'_You're losing it, Zackary. It is inevitable.'_

'_I won't!'_

'_Give it up, already. You're free-falling, and it's not going to look up.'_

'_I'm bound to hit rock bottom, but it won't be __that__.'_

'_You've already hit rock bottom, Zackary. You hit rock bottom and it crumbled out beneath you.'_

'_Stop.'_

'_It crumbled out, and you're only falling deeper.'_

'_Stop.'_

'_You're never going to get out.'_

'_No! Stop it!'_

'_There is no getting back up from here.'_

'_Shut up!'_

'_You're pushing the inevitable, but the farther on you go, the worse you're going to be. Get it over with.'_

'_No!'_

You shudder.

'_Why do you keep fighting? You're falling apart, your strength is zilch. Zackary, you are done for. Embrace it.'_

'_Stop…'_

A sweat breaks out on your brow. Your breathing speeds up, becomes heavier. A rush of tingling infuses your fingers, pins and needles pricking, pricking...

'_Do you feel that weight? Do you feel that deadly promise?'_

You can't breathe. Your lungs are heavy and lax, your chest too tight. Your breath is quick, sharp and choppy, but it does not help.

'_Nothing will help. Nothing and no one will help you now. You're beyond help, and those that are beyond help…'_

'_Please just stop.'_

Your will crumbles beneath the onslaught, your fight broken and pleading for mercy. Breathe, breathe, breathe…

'_Oh so useless. And you, oh so worthless. Try to catch a breath, you know you can't.'_

Your lungs close off and the wheezing taking over you will not release. You can't breathe, you can't breathe…

'_And just like that, you're never going to catch a grip and climb out. You're plummeting and there's no stopping it. This is the end of the line for you.'_

Your eyes widen, panic closing off your mind, confining the echoes of those Voices within the ravaged landscape of thought. You can't breathe…you're going to die! You're going to die…

'_Whether you like it or not, whether you acknowledge you want it or not, you're going to die. Your life ends here, in this infirmary, with all your secrets exposed but not known. How fitting is this? This is perfect.'_

'_Be quiet. Please just be quiet.'_

'_No can do, Zackary. We are your only company, and we wouldn't want you to be wanting, now would we?'_

"Go away," you moan breathlessly. The serpent of darkness strikes you, it clouds your mind in a haze within your pounding skull, and it wraps tighter, squeezing, constricting, around your lungs. You inhale shallowly, but it becomes useless; your lungs will not inflate, expand to make room for that precious commodity.

You're falling farther.

'_That's right. Give it up.'_

"No," another soft, broken moan, a breathless sound in the still atmosphere of your world, but your own voice is fading away amongst the cacophony of malicious laughter, of mockery and contempt and jeers from the Voices and the demons and the memories that all knew this was coming.

But it is useless. You're falling, and there's no stopping. You can't breathe; you aren't worth the breath…you aren't worth…

'_No, you are not. And that's why nobody cares about you.'_

At this rate, you're fading, you're fading and you can't stop it…your lungs won't work, your heart is beating too fast, as if to burst from your chest in resolve to leave you bleeding and dying, wasting away for want of air you can't get and a beat counting the moments of your life…

'_It's not true, it's not.'_

But are you convincing yourself, so quietly broken, of the useless?

'_Yes, it is. You are the one who has it wrong. So wrong. This is what you have been worth—losing that beat, your life, because you are not worth living. And you know what? Nobody will shed a tear when they find you. __Dead__. Undone by your own inability to perform such a paltry, simple task as breathing. __Nobody__.'_

You gasp, but the air is trapped in your tight, dry throat, and you're choking, your mind darkening.

'_And it's so fitting. You never could do __anything__.'_

You could fight back, but it's true. It's so true. It's all you can feel. You can feel in your gut, in your heart, in your failing chest and in your bones…it's true.

You can't accept that. You don't want to.

'_Give it up, Zackary,'_ the enticing whisper mocks your name, mocks you, and inside of you, you know it is right, always right, but you don't want to believe it.

'_I said, give it up!'_ the scream rips through your mind, and your hands are grappling in your hair, trying to breathe, trying to breathe…

'_Oh, now you're not responding?'_

You decline; you quiet; you try to breathe, breathe. It sticks in your throat, it's not working, not working… you're going to die, you're going to die!

'_Not going to say anything now, I see. Coward, my coward.'_

'_Stop. I'm not. And I'm not your anything. I'm not listening to you.'_

'_Yes, you are. And you __know__ it's all true.'_

So many things flash before your eyes, you can hardly catch it. Your father. Your mother. Maya. Your brother. Bailey. Woody. Moseby. Your brother.

'_No. You're lying, you have to be.'_

'_Give up trying to convince yourself. You're failing. I speak __only__ truth.'_

No, no… _'Go away. I'm not listening to you anymore. I'm not! I am not!'_

Your mother, utterly disappointed eyes haunting you. Your father, disregarding personality keeping him away from you. Maya, that one so far beyond you. Your brother…your brother…useless, useless, you're so useless…your brother…

'_I don't want you around! I don't care how much you're the only one I deserve. I want out! I don't want you! Leave me alone.'_

'_Never. Silence all protests, you worthless coward. You are not getting rid of __me__, no matter how hard you try; you are __forever stuck__ in this, in __my__ web. I am the only one who cares to hold onto you, and I'm not letting go. You are mine.'_

You whimper. No, no…

'_You are in my hold, now, and you cannot get out. And you couldn't even if you tried, because you are that feeble and so thoroughly resigned to me, to your only company, to the only one here for you. And I am.'_

A sob catches in your throat, jerking your shoulders, but in panic and terror and horror and pain, it is suffocating you, suffocating you in cruel hands…your mind is a haze, you can't breathe, and darkness is hedging in, hedging in…

'_I know you'll never even attempt such a thing as to break loose, you are too much of a coward. But at least you are my coward. And you are, and you __will__ listen to __me__.'_

Oh how you wish you couldn't, but you are and you are resigned to it, in action and submission. Your lungs burn for want of air, your wide and wild eyes rim in red and tears, and your hands are white as your fingers dig into your scalp. If only you could breathe, if only…

'_You will always have me around, because I am the __only __one __you __deserve__. I will never stop haunting you!'_

You close your eyes against the screech, the pain ricocheting around your ravaged mind. Your breathing, hitched, speeds up as you attempt to compensate for what you are not getting, but nothing is helping, nothing is helping…

'_See, now you are a cry-baby. Do you feel that warmth in your eyes, that extra burning lump closing off your throat? You're suffocating yourself. You always pondered your suicide, bet you never thought of it ending this way. Unable to breathe because you're panicking, because you're fighting the inevitable and you know it's true, you know it's all true…'_

Oh to let go, oh to escape. Oh to breathe, to breathe…

'_Do you want to know what else you are?'_

You can't, you can't. It will be your undoing, you can hear it in that mockingly sweet, painfully tender voice, in the way it turns against you, the way its spurious warmth promises cold and damage and tearing you down.

These are the ways the thoughts possess, the way the thoughts reconvene and whisper and grip so tightly, so tightly…

You want to say n-no, leave you alone, you want to, but you can't…your voice has faded, it has been lost along with your breath, with your fading consciousness…

'_You are unloved, a useless piece of trash, serving no purpose in anything, not even the lives directly around you. Not even your brother's. You are a horrible person, so haunted and black-touched, you're a sorry sight, one bent and warped and twisted…so beyond saving, beyond worth. You are caught, suspended permanently, in my web, the web which is stealing your life, built with your eager hands and handed to me in your blood and weariness and pain, and you can't stop it! I will kill you, Zackary. I will kill you because I hold you in my hands and I control what happens to you. And like you have done to yourself, like everyone else has and you have to them, I will hurt you. I will hurt you.'_

And everything within you freezes when these words echo within your fading mind, and those Voices, your demons, your life, they know…they know they have gotten to you. _He_ knows he has gotten you. You are had, gotten, caught, held in cruel, cold clutches…and you're suffocating…

'_That's right. We have you, __I__ have you, you are had, and no one can take that possession away from Us. From me. I control you and I say when you __breathe__!'_

What little air there is within them is rushed from your constricting lungs, a sucker punch to the gut driving your feeble breaths from you. Your pounding, rushing, gushing, racing heart is straining, straining…

'_I say when you live.'_

You can't see anything anymore, the world is fading away, your fall taking you farther and farther away from the fading lights…breath failing, breath failing…

'_You are under my shadow and I will never let this darkness pass over you, so as to leave you. Nay, it is your blanket, your four walls, low ceiling and frozen floor. This shadow over you, this darkness surrounds you. You will always be here, always…'_

A flash, another. One beat. Two. Dancing spots. Images, pictures, white, darkness…darkness…

Your fall takes forever, but is over in moments. You never hit bottom, but you are shattering on the impact of everything along the way.

A breath, it's gone. A beat, it falters. Your heart, it fails. Your lungs, they freeze. Your throat, it closes off. Your mind, it darkens. Consciousness is fading, fading…

Flashes, images, feelings, faces…

Your mother. Your father. Your brother.

_You're fading. You're fading and that's it…_

Silent darkness steals over you, absolute and sheer panic screaming, _you're dying, you're dying!_ and you're drifting, drifting, fading, losing, falling…

Isn't there supposed to be more? Oh fear, oh panic. Oh pain, oh pain, oh pain…your eyes are without sight, your mind is without thought but for the sheer horror burning in your throat, and you're passing out, you're leaving it behind, behind…

You can't breathe, you can't…there's nothing, nothing to hold on to…you should let go…nothing to hold on to…there's darkness waiting, freedom…you're waiting on nothing, nothing…and as you're falling, convinced, another factor cuts through…

Your brother.

A beat. Two. Darkness hedges. It consumes. A breath, it doesn't enter.

…but nothing, nothing to hold on to…nothing—

"_ZACK!"_

_Across a gorge running through my life,  
>The ravine tearing wider and carrying strife<br>On rivers turned crimson and cold and wrong,  
>I see the reason I face this reality and why I hold on<em>

-0-

**Author's Note:** Who do you think spoke his name? What do you think that is about? What will become of Zack? Do you see how our "Voices" convince us of things? There is so much to see in this chapter! I wish all of us recognised the methods, the twistings that ensnare us. Was this chapter intense? What did you think, feel? Tell me everything, if you will! Who do you think we should focus on next? What do you think should or will happen next? Any ideas you have could spur any number of extra thoughts or help with the writing process!

Last chapter, I used a word that I forgot to stick into the vocabulary. That word is heliocentric - (1)** with Sun central: **_with the Sun at the center_

Vocabulary:

paltry - (1) **insignificant:** _insignificant or unimportant_; (2) **despicable:** _low and contemptible_

spurious - (1) **not genuine: **_different from what it is claimed to be, not authentic, or not valid or well-founded_


	14. Scattered In a Million Pieces

Falling Through the Cracks  
>by <strong>Aimme<strong>,  
>with touches by <strong>My Note Book<strong>

**Summary: **His mask was flawless. His walls were perfectly structured. Protection and cautionary containment at its finest. Even a perfect pretend held fractures, though, and no matter how strong his glue, under the right circumstances, glue cracked and had to be gutted and filled in again.

**Author's Note:**I do not know what to say about this chapter. I did not have much time to write it, as a couple of friends came down last Thursday as a late birthday present, but it was a long, extended weekend. They stayed until Monday, and I enjoyed every minute of it, but that also meant no writing. I didn't have any time on Monday, either, because it was the 4th and we had family time. So, truly, I wrote this chapter between yesterday and today. I started off writing it in past tense, but, due to having written in present tense in other chapters, it kept trying to switch tenses on me. I think I caught all the places that happened and it is all in past tense, now, but if you notice anything, let me know!

**BlackKeys96**, it is indeed sad how much that "Voice" has control over Zack. He needs to be set free of it, but I am not sure when such will/would happen. I am glad the emotions came through, and you could feel it all right along with Zack. The "Voice" does indeed play with his head, tricking him and turning things back around on him, using his own insecurities as a person, himself as a human, against him, to destroy and ruin him. I am grateful for your review, and truly flattered that you were amazed at the work of the last chapter! I hope this chapter has a few answers, maybe some more questions, and definitely more enjoyment for you!

**alexaokami**, I wanted to thank you, also on behalf of My Note Book, for reviewing! Your review was very complimenting, and we appreciated you taking the time to tell us some of your thoughts! I hope you continue to enjoy it!

Hm...yay for more Cody?

-0-

Chapter Fourteen - Scattered In a Million Pieces In the Other Direction

-0-

_Why do I feel I have missed something?  
>Why, when I have known so much,<br>Do I have this fear quietly whispering  
>That now more than ever, I have never been farther out of touch?<em>

A tight ball of restless, agitated energy tightening his gut, he paced. And paced. He wasn't sure how long he had been, but a good five minutes had to have passed, right? Maybe it was only two, but that hardly mattered. What _mattered_ was his predicament -namely, his brother- and his inability to resolve the situation from where he was, and as is, but his uselessness grated on his nerves, that he should be so idle, and thus he paced. He had to do _something_.

So why wasn't it helping? Why was there something, something…twisting, eating at him, turning his heart over on itself several times…something, something whispering and rubbing him the wrong way, so that all of his eased mindset had flown out the porthole a few feet away and sunk into the depths of the deep blue sea sparkling in the clear day outside.

He could not pin it down, nor could he squash the uneasy hollow gaping in his gut, bludgeoning him into pacing and worrying his lip and fretting. His disturbed persona filled the quiet, empty hall, but its lack of others did not register in his mind. A fisted hand rested against his mouth, the other at his side fluctuated between tensed as such and tightly stretched out flat, and his feet wore a path in the printed carpet.

In truth, he believed he would much rather have the gut-wrenching truth, the heart-cutting facts of the situation. However, he dared himself to believe he had them, and scarcely allowed himself to doubt his twin's story. And he may be in denial, but it was a comforting place, and in his state, it was his only consolation.

He refused to acknowledge any possibility that he was in denial, and he told himself off if he did any less than live up to his dare to believe and instead let himself give in to doubt.

What reason did he have to doubt his brother's words? Zack _was_ a walking hazard, one accident after another simply waiting to happen.

Yes, this was fitting…and yes, he liked this explanation. This was one he could live with, so he would and he would do no less and no else.

'_But what if __not__?' _That slithery, slick-toned Voice caught him off guard, and he was shocked to feel his heart rush into harsh pounding.

No, no. He wouldn't listen to his doubt. That was _all_ that taunting, cold Voice was…_all_. Nothing else. Nothing more.

Then why did his skin chill? Why could he swear he had heard the echo of a malicious laugh, far-off and faint, as if someone beside him had…No, the hall was empty.

Fantastic. Now he was losing his head because he was worried.

'_Yeah, that's it…'_ now came the sarcasm. He really should…

No. He shook his head. What was_ wrong_ with him? He was being irrational and weird. His mind was too preoccupied, too much, too quickly, having happened today. It needed to be over, and he needed to set this Zack situation to rights and be on his way… Yes, because he could set it to rights, and they would forget it had happened… yes, yes, he liked that plan.

'_Most excellent.'_

He blinked. He had been over this, there was…

"Cody!"

Startled from his pacing and his thinking, his head snapped up, the hair on his chilled skin raising, goose-bumps running up and down his arms and his fast-paced heart shifting into a higher gear and revving its speed for all it was worth.

"Bailey!" he had scarcely had her name out of his mouth before his arms were full of upset, crying, shaking girlfriend. He _really_ did not like this…and that bad feeling…

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" she clutched him tightly and kept repeating, and his wide-eyed gaze stared down the hall behind her…down the hall towards the infirmary where his brother, his _brother_…

_Terror-panic-pain._

Shaken, he snapped back from the odd flash, blinking his eyes. What…what was _that_?

"What's wrong, Bails?" he tried to ask as gently as possible, but his voice trembled in the wake of a sudden fear that gripped him. His blood ran cold, and he did not know what it was to not be so shaken and terrified.

Bailey was coming _undone_.

Since when did his Southern Belle burst at the seams in sobs and shakings?

"Cody…but Zack…Zack…"

Oh god, _no_.

He completely froze, his gaze locked down the hall she had rushed down, the hall which towards the other end, a locked door was between him and his dratted brother.

"What?" he asked in a tight voice, barely restrained emotions pushing to be let out.

"I'm so sorry about Zack," she hiccupped, trying to calm.

He felt all of his fear escalate, rising from its place at the back of his mind to fill his whole consciousness with screaming. Indeed, he feared the worst, and the fear was the worst he had ever felt. This was worse than the monsters under his bed that would not leave without his room being scrubbed with holy water (he knew now that his mother had never come by holy water, but that is beside the point); this was worse than the time Drew and his stupid crew threatened to haul off and knock him flat in front of the whole school cafeteria and ruin his homework because he and his twin had kicked them out of the Tipton (thankfully, they had only threatened him once, but that is neither here nor there). This was worse than the time their father had left them at the playground when they were four and they were there for two hours, alone, before their mother showed up (he barely remembers this, but the fear and feeling better that his brother was near are echoes in his memory).

And this was definitely worse than when Zack had tumbled off the monkey-bars at the playground when they were six and couldn't, at first, breathe again.

For Bailey had barrelled down the hall from the direction of the infirmary, sobbing over Zack, and he could not deny he was suitably terrified for his brother's wellbeing, or, as he feared, the lack thereof.

"Bails," he had to force her name out, past his tightening throat. "Bails, what about Zack?"

She sniffed and pulled back, confusion marring her smooth brow, running furrows between her eyes. "But, Cody…Cody, surely you _know_…"

"Know? Bails, what do I know?" he asked, a miserable note eating away at his heart.

She stared at him, and then, through trembling lips, pronounced, "Zack is dying."

The sun darkened, his world dropped out, and everything felt as though it had shattered. His chest caved in, his heart scattered in a million pieces in the other direction, towards the infirmary, and he felt as though this was a nightmare he wished he could -oh wished, if only he _could_- wake up from.

He stumbled back from her, as if she had punched him in the gut. "Wh…what?" he whispered, shell-shocked.

No, no, it couldn't be…

'_Oh but it could.'_

He did not know what was wrong with his brother -_'certainly more than you are willing to admit'_- and Bailey could only have come from the infirmary.

"Bails…what…what do you mean?" he stared at her, unable to comprehend the unthinkable. He was just with his brother…his brother who had promptly, unexpectedly, unexplainably keeled over in the infirmary after bleeding from an "accident"…

_He felt trapped, unable to move. It was tight, so tight…claustrophobic…trapped…_

He blinked, his mind jerking back to this moment. Confused, a little unnerved, he tried to wave off that sudden feeling of panic. But his brother dying _was_ something to panic over…

His brother…dying…oh sweet life! Tears pricked his eyes.

"Cody, I'm so sorry," he heard her voice, he stared at her face, but it didn't really register.

_Confined. And he hated being confined. But there was no way out…_

He couldn't wake up from this, he knew. There was absolutely no way.

He wanted to run far away…so very far away…

'_Maybe you should.'_

_Horror-revulsion-pain._

He bit back a sob, feeling his chest tighten. The air was stifling, thick, and he felt his mind shying away from the horror. Why had this happened to him? His brother couldn't be dying, he couldn't…

'_Oh, stop denying it…'_

_He couldn't win. He couldn't._

Why did he feel so utterly trapped? He was helpless, useless. What had happened? Why?

He felt her hand on his arm, and something inside of him loosened, a weight, which still pressed heavily down, did not close in so closely. His mind surfaced, but still reeled.

"Bailey?" he pressed, looking for answers.

"Cody," she answered, waiting for him.

He licked his lips, trying to process what was going on. But he couldn't, couldn't…there was _no_ _way_ he could rise above this…

'_There is no getting back up from here.'_

He crumpled, slipping to the ground in disbelief, inability to take it in. His whole world had tunnelled into one aspect, and the words echoed harshly in his head in time with his pounding heart, which hammered in his ears and blocked out all other sounds. _Zack is dying…Zack is dying…dying…_

He shuddered, followed by a heartless sob…because his heart…his heart resided in that stupid room, behind that dratted door, with his infuriating…beloved brother…his heart cramped and ached in his chest, but it was with his twin.

'_You're falling apart.'_

Oh and he knows it. Well, so very well, does he know it.

The deadly promise of losing, losing, pressed down on him.

Had it always been this hard to breathe? It was hard, so very hard, to breathe…

He tried to force a deep breath into his lungs, willing something normal to happen, but it cannot relieve how heavy the weight is which was crushing his diaphragm. The air rushed into his dense lungs, but his chest was tight, so tight…

Surely he was sweating now, but regardless, Bailey's hand felt cool to his forehead and her presence something to anchor him.

He looked at her, feeling utterly miserable and he could not think rationally past that. Her eyes, red-rimmed and teary, met his and he willed himself to focus on that, something to ground himself to…

'_Oh so useless…'_

And he was. He was. His brother, dying? There was nothing he could do about it. He was useless.

'_That's right…'_

Where was a handy corner to curl up in? A place to forget the world? He wanted to fight back, but his will was draining away…there wasn't anything he could _do_, and so lazing in this misery seemed well enough…it was all he _had._

But Bailey's hand running through his hair, her hitched breathing, her presence reaching him through the cloud around him, _Bailey_, was there. He had _these_ things. He had _something_.

Not his brother, though. He felt so far out of touch, and he wondered when that had happened…then chalked it up to the pressing knowledge that all too soon, he would not be able to talk to his brother or speak to his brother or fight with his brother.

'_And it's so fitting…'_

He closed his eyes against the voice of his regret, a bile in his throat, as it whispered softly at the very edges of him. He didn't want to acknowledge it.

With a sheer amount of will, he pulled himself back, farther, farther, away from that edge, putting distance between him and what lay beyond it.

Finally, he opened his eyes to stare into Bailey's worried hazels, a helpless tear tracking down his face.

"H-how?" he managed to ask, only one word, but he needed to know…how did she know? How was his brother dying?

"Come on," she said instead, encouraging him to his feet, but he felt light-headed for a moment as he gained his feet. He feared he may not be able to stand, but the bout passed and he was steady.

"Bails," he intoned, gripping her arm. "_How_?" he reiterated, whilst firmly telling himself he can handle this, he can keep his head… He told himself to keep breathing, to simply keep breathing.

She searched his face for a moment, then turned him towards the bench he had abandoned, which still held a clipboard of patient information he was not, really, supposed to be filling out.

"I don't know, Cody," she began as they sunk down onto the bench. She stared at her hands, hitched breath telling of her own tenuous hold on her emotions. "I just don't know. This day has been so strange…I was waiting for you to come back, and then Woody came running up to inform me why you weren't there."

His own breathing hitched for a moment, a flash of panic and then it was gone. A distant echo, something to the effect of _'she knows' _whispered at the cloudy haze between subconscious and conscious, but he did not pay attention to the resonant, past sound.

Her hand slipped into his, an anxious grip he quickly returned, for the anchor it provided him.

He tried to calm, to simply breathe, but something told him it was not working…it's not working…

"Bailey," he began thickly, forcing himself to speak, to get through. "Bailey, Woody told you what?"

"That Zack is dying. Cody, what is he dying of?" She tightened her grip on his hand, but he told himself to relax.

"Woody…Woody told you…" he repeated, trying to tell himself to feel relieved, to let the tension and fear and horror go. "Bailey, _Woody_ told you…"

"Yes, Cody," she confirmed softly, as if he was not grasping what she was saying.

_She_ was not grasping what _he_ meant. "Bailey, _how_ did Woody know?" he asked, and only after the words left his mouth, did he realise what it sounded like.

A hitched sob answered him for a moment, as his words confirmed _her_ fears and nightmares. "He saw you dragging Zack to the infirmary," she began.

He groaned, nearly slapping his forehead.

He had _nothing_ to fear. It was _Woody_, for crying out loud!

'_Give up trying to convince yourself…'_

As before, he ignored this snide voice, such a soft, far-off sound, barely heard—but this was one that was determined to steal his hope as vestiges of him, down so low he could hardly breathe, believed he was not worthy of hope. He hardly noticed it, pulling himself farther, farther, away from the edges of himself and all that lay beyond it.

He refused to let himself realise he was refusing to think about what lay beyond those edges.

But for one terrifying moment, lasting a time he could not pin-point, he couldn't breathe again, and then with an audible snap inside of him, he felt his withdraw complete; in fact, it happened so suddenly, it almost felt as if the air was knocked out of him.

_Panic-horror-pain._

_Claustrophobic, a weight, inability to breathe…to breathe…_

_Panic, panic, panic._

His head spun as his vision abruptly tunnelled, nearly the whole world blinking out in an expanse of dark, his stomach turning and his heart burning, then everything snapped back into focus, he grounded himself in the middle, but his heart lurched in the other direction and screamed a terrified cry.

"_ZACK!"_

_There must be something more,  
>Behind all the mist and haze I thought to be clear view,<br>A vista stretched, detailed to the core,  
>But something taunts me, tells me, I don't know you<em>

-0-

**Author's Note:** No, of course I couldn't give you readers more resolution and closure yet! _Of_ _course_ I have to drag out the suspense... Besides that, what did you think? Having had so little time, myself, to ponder this chapter and what has been written, plus sporting a magnificent headache that makes thinking about this all somewhat difficult, I am not entirely certain of this chapter yet, as I have not had time to learn it...if that makes sense. If it doesn't, blame the headache and be on your way to the review button or the "close this tab/browser" button...

If memory serves (which, even without a headache, I cannot always guarantee that), there was no interesting vocabulary for this chapter. Plain old, common, every day English...ah, well...what can you do?

Until (hopefully) next week, farewell!


	15. The Only One She Had Ever Known

Falling Through the Cracks  
>by <strong>Aimme<strong>,  
>with touches by <strong>My Note Book<strong>

****Summary: ****His mask was flawless. His walls were perfectly structured. Protection and cautionary containment at its finest. Even a perfect pretend held fractures, though, and no matter how strong his glue, under the right circumstances, glue cracked and had to be gutted and filled in again.

**Author's Note: **Ah, what to say about this week? It may be a change of pace, but what is coming has been in the rough draft form for well over six weeks. I finally got around to working on it, and here we have, at least, this chapter. I am very interested in some of the things mentioned in here, so hopefully it will stir some interest, too. For some of our regular reviewers, hopefully how long this one took in coming won't disappoint as I know some of you asked me about this a long while ago.

**BlackKeys96**, thank you! I appreciate it! We all have voices, those bad thoughts and doubts and put-downs that chip away at us. But yes, it would appear Cody's isn't as controlling as Zack's, but I think that is partly because Zack has "fed" his, so to speak. Not to mention, Zack is always being informed by those around him that he will never amount to anything; everybody knows Cody has a bright future. I think that comes into play. The "voices" are out to make us consider the worst, so in Cody's case, his voice was trying to get him to acknowledge what he refused to acknowledge he was refusing to acknowledge. (And yes, that sentence does make sense...and no it is not a mistake.) I am so glad you liked how he felt that his world was falling apart and that he wouldn't be able to go on, because it showed you how much he cares for his brother. Thank you! I appreciated your compliments very much and I hope this week lives up to expectation, even though it is a change of pace.

**the unknown**, thanks! I certainly hope that they are closer to getting to Zack's problem, but how much closer in the great distance of it all is still to be determined, for the most part. And I agree, that "voice" needs to be put to justice! Care to hunt it down with a spear for hunting boar and skewer it solidly before it could get to you? Put us all out of its misery. Hopefully, we shall see what was happening there at the end! I don't know how much this story will reveal. Thank you and I hope you enjoy this week's installment! And you are welcome, by the way.

I still my fingers, now...

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Chapter Fifteen - The Only One She Had Ever Known

-0-

_"The family you come from isn't as important as the family you're going to have." -Ring Lardner_

It had been a slow day, but that was to be expected. One of A Kind sold snow-globes, and who bought excessive amounts of snow-globes? Apparently, Mr. Tipton. For London. To sell.

How crazy could one person be?

The store had turned into more of an escape scene for London, instead. Here, when Bailey was off the clock (which was a suitable amount of time for London), she hid. Well, it wasn't hiding. London Tipton didn't hide. She just made herself scarce (it was good for the tabloid popularity if people can't find you every now and then) and pretended she was very busy playing with the extension of her wardrobe, which she kept in the back room and very few people knew about.

That's what she told her friends, at least.

However, London Tipton had compulsive-liar tendencies and when she _truly_ lied (how ironic does that sound?), she did so very well. Which is why she was sitting at the counter, humming softly to herself, working diligently and quietly on a copy of her homework, but kept a watchful eye as she did so to keep anyone from knowing.

She would never actually turn this copy in, though. As said, it was a copy—literally. She had run her homework through a copy machine, she worked the problems for real on the copy (most of the time…sometimes she didn't do her homework at all, but that is what others make the accepted behaviour for London Tipton), and then she turned in her duff homework for her teacher.

It would be no use to let others know she knew things, now would it? It would be a hassle not worth contending with.

It was as she was spacing out from the stress of her life _as_ London Tipton, her ever watchful gaze caught in her peripheral vision the sight of Woody passing by the front window, headed for the door, and she quickly hid her work under the counter with a speed that matched his own hurried approach.

The door swung open, the bell _ding-a-ling_'ed, and a teary-eyed and short of breath Woody rushed to the counter where she sat, a haughty, aloof mask covering her mien.

What, had someone insulted him? Likely. People were turds. (And, for now, in all brutal honesty, that included herself.) Who cared that it was a taboo insult? She was London Tipton, and in the sanctuary of her mind, she could always think whatever she wanted.

She watched, her aloofness a careful guard, with thereby cold eyes, the teenager place his hand on the counter and try to catch his breath. The Clevelander did not look good.

He tried to speak, but his own lungs stopped him.

She felt impatient and somewhat annoyed, as the sooner he said what he had come to say, the sooner he left, which meant the sooner she could get back to her own stresses and worries before she continued facing the world outside with all of its various obligations it threw upon her. Most of the time, she took it and didn't care about it, that being the easiest way of swallowing that bitter pill, but there were days she wanted the chance to space and cool off.

She didn't appreciate out of breath Ohioans interrupting her, and taking into account his red-rimmed eyes, evidence of tears if she knew anything, he had probably been insulted. And she couldn't even _feign_ to care—as the world saw it, that wasn't the way London Tipton was and everyone had to know it. There was less hassle that way.

So she did what London Tipton does. That is, said, "Look, I already told you nothing in the back room will fit you. No matter how hard you try to make something fit. You will break it just by looking at it," she began to snicker to herself, laughing over her own cleverness for coming up with insults fast.

"Hurt…ful…but not…here…for that…" he said slowly, beginning to get his wind back.

"Wait. You shouldn't be here anyways," she interrupted. "You are going to scare my costumers away."

No mention of the fact that there wasn't anyone around, and no mention of the fact that she knew next to no one was going to be around for awhile. London Tipton simply did not do that.

Instead, she got up, came around the counter, took his arm (_'eww…"poor people"…'_) and tried to lead him back to the door.

He managed to pull his arm out of her grip, a few feet from the door, and, now having his breath back, stated, "No, London, this is serious."

Frowning, she glanced both ways for costumers as he said this, but since there was no one, she turned back and, having noted that he looked as though he had been crying, she asked, "What's wrong? Did they run out of hot dogs? Gonna have to wait 'til we dock somewhere to get more?" she snickered again. She wanted to know what was wrong with her friend (there, she said it!), but she did not want to show she had a caring side. Not if her life depended on it.

There could be the issue, of course…but that is neither here nor there.

Woody shook his head in answer, then said, "No, London, something _much_ worse." His eyes watered again for who knew how many times that day (perhaps hundreds, but London could not know this).

The heiress, herself, becoming very serious, stood up straight and still, and waited, waited for her friend to continue. And she knew, to her dislike, that her eyes had probably taken on the shade of her worry as she wanted to know what was wrong.

"Za-" Woody started and stopped abruptly, putting a hand to his face as he dropped his head, his whole countenance falling even more.

As though obliged and obliging, London put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Whatever it is, it can't be worth ruining your complexion. Oh no wait, you don't have one worth keeping kempt—er, contemptible not…not contemptible, that is. Never mind." She refrained from slapping her forehead and instead played the airhead, covering her slip with exaggerated idiocy, so that it definitely came across that she had slipped-up but that her slip of the tongue was because of stupidity and not otherwise.

A nugget of truth strengthens a lie, does it not? Sometimes, the closer to the mark of truth something is, the easier it is to preserve and cover up the lie woven throughout it, right?

Oh, best to keep moving on. "What's going on?" she wondered as she led him away from the door. It may have registered as uncharacteristic of her, but Woody seemed too distressed to think about it. Besides, she doubted he thought very long or hard or deeply on something other than food.

Maybe Addison. Maybe. London wasn't sure on that count, though. Not that she paid attention. Uh-huh. Nope.

She didn't care that it was uncharacteristic of her to be concerned, because she was exactly that—too concerned to care. She looked at Woody and waited for an answer instead, folding her arms and refraining from tapping her foot.

"Well…" he began awkwardly, looking at her. His eyes were full of sorrow, and he looked as if he had just received and was about to pass on the worst news ever.

But that couldn't be. What kind of exciting things ever happened on this ship?

"I…well…umm…" his chin trembled as he tried to speak, tried to explain, "Zack is…umm…"

London's eyes widened as he said Zack's name. Worst news ever, had to do with Zack, Woody crying. It couldn't be good, could it? "Woody, what happened?" her voice, as she was full of worry, demanded quickly of him. Zack had probably just insulted him. Yes, that was it; Zack had insulted him.

Then why come crying to her?

'_Oh shut up.'_

Placing a hand on London's shoulder, Woody seemed determined to tell her, but it was hard, so hard, wasn't it? Chin still shaking, he started, "L-London, I'm sorry. Z-Zack is…" he trailed off as his determination faded away on the close of his sentence, that last dreadful part.

What was it?

"What? Zack is what?" she pressed. _'Say a jerk, say rude, say anything but anything I fear.'_

"Zack is…dying," the harsh word was barely whispered, his vocal chords giving out on it. But it was finally said.

'_Oh Salmon P. Chase!' _Her mind's note of exasperation was spoken abstractly, distractedly.

Woody's words hung in the air, suspended on their unwanted wings of unbridled ill-intent, before the world seemed to slow into a sluggish motion, a snail's pace reaction as her brain shied away from the most horrible proposition ever to grace or offend her ears. She felt something snap listlessly inside of her, and she saw Woody's mouth moving but the words did not reach her across the expanse that had opened between her small figure and the rest of the world as she stood balanced on the edge with eyes staring blindly across the gorge that had been torn. She was assaulted by a rush so strong she scarcely felt it, and then a black haze covered over her view of the world.

There was a dark blob on the ceiling, and this confused her because she was usually so thorough about cleanliness and appearances and being the most-together person of anybody around her. So why had she been so negligent?

Wait, that dark blob framed flesh and had eyes, nose, and mouth, and that mouth was moving with what she presumed to be questions as her blurry gaze crystallized and things began to snap back into focus.

A voice wafted into her consciousness in time with her vision clearing as she slowly regained her senses. Literally.

"London? London? Are you alright? You're not going to go off and die on me _too_, are you? London?"

Yes, she had assessed that correctly. That mouth, Woody, was peppering questions at her.

Couldn't he see she had just fainted?

She almost slapped her forehead. _Benjamin Franklins and William McKinleys_, he had seen her faint! Mortified, she was thoroughly peeved and abstractedly considered slapping him, but it was not as if it was his fault she had fainted, now was it? Granted, he had told her Zack was dying and that…

She blanched. Zack was dying? _Woodrow Wilson and a half! _but Woody's question about her dying "too" filtered through her brain.

She pushed him back as she went to sit up. "Get out of my face, you might drop poor-people germs on me. I don't need to be cursed!"

"Gee thanks," he shot back sarcastically as he pulled back. "Seriously, London," he glared at her in that way that was so Woody, "Are you alright?"

"I am fine," she waved off as she stood up. _'Pretend like nothing happened, pretend like nothing changed, pretend like…'_

"London, really?" Woody sounded incredulous. "Didn't you hear me?"

No. Because there was nothing to hear. Yup. Nothing.

"Yes, of course," she waved him off again. "Now, I have things to get back to so if you could skedaddle..."

"Did you hit your head too hard? I know you're _insensitive_," he started, and she gritted her teeth as she turned away, "but even you have enough heart to be bothered by," _'No, no, no, it wasn't, don't say it, because if it isn't said, it isn't true,' _"the fact that Zack is dying."

And there were those dreaded words. London hated death, with a strong passion. It made her sad. And London did not like being sad. If nothing else, it smeared her makeup, and Heaven forbid her makeup ever get smeared!

"Did you hear me that time, London?" Woody's face was caught in an oxymoron combination of sarcastic derision and concern born from wanting to give her the benefit of the doubt.

She felt unsteady, pale. There was nothing to it but to give it up and resign herself to it, because there was no mistaking those words. They had been set into the stone of the heavy atmosphere, a solid weight that bore down upon her and threatened to crush her.

Her shock ran deep, her eyes were larger than normal, and finally she swivelled back around, seeing nothing else but to face it. "Wh…how?" she asked, telling herself to keep back the tears that wanted to form in her eyes.

A sense of urgency suddenly welled within her, and as she faced the situation headlong, something snapped within her.

She jumped at Woody and grasped his shoulders tightly and shook him. "What happened?" she yelled, vaguely aware she had raised her voice a little, but she didn't care if people were nearby or not, neither that she was causing a scene nor that she was startling Woody. "How?"

She wanted to know what happened to one of her closest and oldest friends.

"I-I saw Cody and Zack heading towards the infirmary," Woody began, obviously disconcerted by London's actions. "And-and Zack was bleeding-"

She had not bothered to hear more, rushing out the door before he had even had a chance to begin to explain. She rushed in the direction of the infirmary, determined to find out herself what was going on, skilfully dodging people and people not so skilfully dodging her. Tears threatened to fall down her face, to smear the makeup which decorated her dolled-up veneer.

She wouldn't let them pass her mask. She couldn't.

Questions rolled around inside of her mind, questions deep and pressing.

_Why? Why didn't he tell us?_

For that audacity, she wanted to wring his neck. "I'm gonna kill him when I find him!" she promised herself, but the irony of that did not escape her.

_What if he's already dead?_

She faltered. "No, no. No, no," she declared. "Zack is going to be _fine_."

After she wrung his neck, of course.

How…how had this happened? Why had it happened? It was unthinkable…

It would tear a family apart. How right was that? Did it have any measure of rightness or fairness or justice in it at all? Why did it have to be?

She didn't have any answers, but there were a few things she knew.

Family was blond hair and mix-ups, identical faces she once couldn't tell apart and now pretended to be unable to because it grated on their nerves, and that was family—and that was what families _do_. Family was mayhem, and edgy managers, and someone always being there. Family was deep eyes that saw through her and made it obvious when no one else was around, when all other pressures of pretension had faded for both.

Family was Kansas-spouting nonsense, and memories of sweater vests, and clothes and hair that smelt of salt-sea spray even though she claimed that hugs would rub off "poor people germs" onto her, and candy-counter visits and insults and sharp wits.

Beyond that, family was that warm, comforting feeling in her stomach when a steady heart and open arms and open shoulders came through for her. Family was _there_, and always there, and family was bickering irritants and marriage 101 botch-ups and kitchen-obsessions and fantasy-football opponents and juice monkeys and towel boys.

Family was all that she had ever truly had. Family was life, and earth, and laughter, and constancy whether things were up or things were down.

Family was a bond, beyond blood or otherwise. Family was those whom she loved and so deserved her love, even though she tried to hide it. Those who deserved the best, those she would do anything for (yes, even stand up to Daddy for).

Family was the only home she had ever loved, and this family was the only one she had ever known.

They had to get through this.

"_Families are about love overcoming emotional torture." -Matt Groening_

-0-

**Author's Note:** Well. As I said, a change of pace, but a chapter I had been trying for a long while to get to. Besides, wasn't it time I left off hassling the twins and tormented someone else a little? They probably needed the break. And my readers needed more suspense. Yes, that is my excuse. What did you think? An interesting look at London, I think. There is definitely more going on there with that "empty-headed heiress" than meets the eye, but what all it is, I am not sure we get an explanation. I just know I found it very intriguing and I am curious as to what some of the things mentioned in here meant.

Vocabulary:

duff - _U.K._ **useless**: _useless, broken, or of very low quality (informal)_

mein - **somebody's general air**:_ somebody's facial expression or general appearance, bearing, or posture, taken as an indication of his or her mood or character (formal) _

feign - (1) **pretend something**:_ to make a show or pretense of something_

kempt - **neat**:_ neat in appearance and well taken care of (archaic)_

veneer - (4) **deceptive appearance**:_ a superficial appearance or show put on to please or impress others_

Random Trivia:

(U.S.A. currency)

_Benjamin Franklin_ (a Founding Father) is the face on the $100 bill, the highest dollar bill still in circulation (I assume he was the face on that bill before they redesigned it in 1996, but if not, then he is definitely the face on it now)._ William McKinley_ (25th President of the U.S.A.) is the face on the $500 bill, which is, obviously, no longer in circulation; as all bills over the $100 bill reach the Federal Reserve Bank, they withdraw it from circulation. All bills over $100 were ceased in 1969 and have since been taken out of circulation—if one is found, that is certainly a very rare coincidence, if one that happens at all._ Salmon P. Chase_ (6th Chief Justice of the United States, 1886, then called the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court) is the face on the $10,000 bill, also ceased in 1969. (There are two other bills between the $500 and the $10,000 that were once legal tender before 1969 when they were ceased, and those are _Grover Cleveland_ (22nd and 24th President of the U.S.A.) on the $1,000 and _James Madison_ (4th President of the U.S.A.) on the $5,000.)_ Woodrow Wilson_ (28th President of the U.S.A.) is the face on the $100,000 bill, which was only produced for internal government purposes for a period of 3 weeks over the New Year period in 1934/5.

The $100,000 bill is the highest denomination ever produced (and used by the government only); the 1 million dollar bill is a myth.

Even though, for example, the $100,000 bill is government-special and the other bills above $100 are out of circulation, I think London, being the money-obsessive person which she is, might know of these other bills. Who knows? She might have some, considering her father and all that. Either way, I think it is fitting for her to use exclamatory expressions which have to do with money.


	16. Interlude of Peace

Falling Through the Cracks  
>by <strong>Aimme<strong>,  
>with touches by <strong>My Note Book<strong>

**Summary:** His mask was flawless. His walls were perfectly structured. Protection and cautionary containment at its finest. Even a perfect pretend held fractures, though, and no matter how strong his glue, under the right circumstances, glue cracked and had to be gutted and filled in again.

**Author's Note:** I must beg indulgence for this chapter. It is very aptly named, given the chapters we have been seeing recently and how this one seems to be of a different cut—of such a dissimilarity of the likes which we have not seen since chapter 2, though it is also considerably different from that chapter, of course. Confused, yet? We are having what the chapter-title says: an interlude of peace! Well, kind of...  
><strong>Besides<strong>, I am not clear on what is going on with the twins as yet. And with the way this week has gone for me, it was a good thing I was not trying to write something for one of them, as that would have been from scratch—whereas, this has been sitting in rough draft form for many weeks, just like the previous chapter.

**BlackKeys96**, thank you! I am glad that you liked the new light for London. There are episodes and certain scenes that make me believe she is not as much of an airhead as she makes herself out to be and as everyone believes her to be. Granted, we all have our airhead moments, but they are just that: moments. Her thoughts and feelings were meant to be sad, so I am glad you picked up on that. As for the parts about hiding behind a mask and the one about family, I am glad you felt something for her there! I hope you enjoy any more aspects of London we might see in my writing!

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Chapter Sixteen - Interlude of Peace

-0-

_"Don't ever stay alone  
>Because if you're alone,<br>You think.  
>If you think,<br>You remember.  
>If you remember,<br>You cry.  
>And if you cry..."<br>-unknown  
><em>

Walking slowly now, as the emotions hit her, she tries to make sense of all the rushing in her head. Verily, she dreads arriving at the infirmary, as if everything will solidify then and there will be no escaping the gruesome reality that threatens to darken an already dark world.

No one is around, which is a relief, and she lets herself sink down onto a stuffed seat in the deserted hall. The faux leather creaks, but she pays it no mind. There is a louder creaking, cracking, bursting sound inside, and she is once more grateful that no one is around—who needs to see her cry? She normally finds a closet, but she feels too overborne to consider searching for such a luxury.

Trickling slow, a few here, a few there, she does not sob as normal. She quietly laments, weeping in a much more solemn manner than usual. "No, no, no, no…" she whispers to herself, as if the mantra could counteract the cold, hard truth. Her shoulders convulse on the word she dreads and hates with a passion: "_Dying_." This is all too much, and she does not know what to do as Woody's words echo in her head, over and over and over.

"This can't be happening…" she finally states, swiping at the newest tears dampening her cheeks and smearing mascara beneath her eyes. "It's not fair."

She lifts her gaze to the ceiling, in effect directing her words heavenward. "God, please, no. Don't let this be happening, not to Zack, not to me, not now, not _ever_," she pleads in the silent hall, with one more jerking sob which catches on the last word. "He could never deserve this."

Sure, Zack is not perfect. Is anyone? Yet how could anyone, sans a murderer or other lowlife scum or dictators or tyrants, deserve death? Is it truly fair?

Something tickling at her memory reminds her about a long-ago admonishment, an adage one of her babysitters had spoken of, that death is the only just ransom for the dues of sinners, but surely she is not remiss in her memory of something about justice tempered by grace and mercy? And there is something there about death, about that due, but she cannot remember those carefree, simplistic days and she scarce recalls the stories Hedia used to tell (or so she tells herself).

Oh, where are her stubborn memories when she needs them?

Suddenly, one rises from the back of her mind, taking her by surprise, as it is nowhere close to any of the ones she has been turning over in her thoughts.

_-  
>*Flashback*<em>

_He stares, as if unaware of the torrent and her downpour, the lightning and his display and thunder and his racket as they compete for their presence in the black sky._

_I cross to the rail, staring down onto the sky deck, brows drawn as I stare at him, trying to understand. I grip the handle in my hands tightly, the wind giving a churlish yank at what the British would call my brolly._

_"Zack! Is everything alright?" I can barely hear my voice over the rain, and I note that even my intrusion does little more than startle him from his thoughts for but a brief moment._

_"Huh?" his head snaps up, gaze flies up to me. Face streaked with water, the drops pouring down his drenched form "Oh yeah!" he answers, convincing and with a smile he has forced across his previous frown. "I was just closing up!" his smile flashes a little bigger as he jumps up from where he has been sitting on a bar-stool at the Easy Squeezy, doing nothing rather than something._

_I nod, anyway. I am not fully convinced, but what business have I here? Do I really have cause to doubt his words? If he wants to get drenched and sit like a mindless idiot while doing so, that is his problem, not mine._

_Besides, I have places to go, people to see. Passing insults to drop, greetings to pass on. Smiles to smile. I have to go. "Alright. See you later, juice monkey," I holler as I turn away, leaving him behind to his questionable behaviour and his odd mannerism._

_*End Flashback*  
><em>-

Why had he been behaving so strangely? Who sat in the rain and stared blankly out into it as if they didn't notice, with that rather questionably detached, pallid despondency tingeing their face? Rain hides many things. Rain masks perfectly what can escape one's mask.

Does she have a chance to eventually find out from him what that had been out? She suspects at the behaviour she had seen, but what was behind it? If he dies now, she could not eventually find out, and that memory would go on bothering her in her uncertainty of what it held.

Oh Wilson's government money! if he _dies_ now…

She falls back against the bench with a sigh, suddenly trembling. "Don't take him away from us. We all _need_ him," she doesn't care she is speaking aloud to herself, she doesn't care that there is no one around to hear her, no perceivable way anyone could hear her. She doesn't care, though; the words are burning her heart, searing in her mouth. She needs to give them an airing out.

A burning sob convulses her shoulders, but she stops there and will not let any more pass. She cannot. Her eyes burn, but she swallows back the tears, refusing the weeping which wants to sweep over her.

She runs her hands over her face, suddenly feeling depleted and wasted. There is nothing to it, she supposes, than to accept reality, suck it up and learn to buck up and walk on. It was the practice of her life, so what was another round?

To her surprise, a door across from her and just to her right, by about two feet, opens as she releases a sigh. She absently notes the number on the door is _3 · 1 2 7 _as her brain compensates for her shock by noting abstract, random information.

An old lady, with brightly deep eyes, pure white hair plaited down her back with errant wisps haloing her head, and a face wrinkled as though from her long years of life, steps out of the room with the smallest of smiles to herself as she shuts the door. That smile, however slight, London notices, falls completely and her face softens when she turns and her gaze zeroes in on the small Tipton heiress, and rather than going about her business, she approaches.

London stares at her, intrigued as she is by this woman's presence and the "something" about her eyes that the younger woman cannot understand. Why are they so deep and remind her of the far reaches of space, reaches which she considers when she lays out beneath the Milky Way and wishes she could catch a falling star?

"Dear, are you unwell?" she inquires, effectively jerking the other from her thoughts and her staring with a single question.

With a startle, she hastily shakes her head and sits up straight. "No, no. I am fine. Uh. I'm sorry, miss."

The lady tilts her head, sharp eyes piercing through London. "Truly?" she questions. "London Tipton does not usually conduct herself in this manner in open sight."

Her heart rate explodes at those words, disconcerted surprise racing through her. There is something about those words which unsettles her, despite their innocuous surface appearance.

"Now, see, I presumed I heard someone in distress out here. I can see it now, all over your face, dear," the stranger slowly makes her way over to the heiress as she speaks, "So do not be sorry, and do not be timorous or bashful. What is wrong, sweetie?"

London is taken aback by this question, for most older passengers tell her -and her friends- to go away and leave them alone. They don't want to be annoyed with and by children.

_Except Zack. They all loved Zack._

She has noticed this yet has never said anything. Several examples could come to mind, but she is focused on the older woman beside her, confused by the question, the intrusion, the sudden company.

And yet it all serves to bring one thing to the focused, sharp forefront of her mind.

Zack.

It is as if a dam is broken by the presence sinking into the seat beside her, the kindness and open invitation to share and her surprising lack of feeling as if she has to hide or as if she cannot open up and share. And she does not understand this feeling, this sort of relaxed unreservedness, a freedom to simply be and not hold back.

She cannot for the life of her control the wave of emotion which crashes over her and she does not feel any need to stop the bore which swells through her and channels through her eyes. Her hands fly to her face, half embarrassed at the tears while another part of her guard feels lax and unopposed to crying.

She feels the stranger wrap caring arms around her woebegone frame and she slips right into them, feeling immensely comforted in the wake of her sorrow. If this was anyone else, London's required response would have been to flip, but something feels right, her walls and veneer and guard either null and void or lax and unperturbed. As the woman leans a white-haloed head against her own, she is at peace with it.

Maybe it feels as though this woman, whoever she is, had come to London's rescue. Maybe, it is almost as if this is an answer to a prayer. Whatever it is, a wave of calmness sweeps over the distressed heiress and she quiets, breathing in the interlude of peace which is suddenly there.

"Come now, tell me everything," the elder's voice is soft and understanding.

London pulls back and looks up, seeing wrinkles which unexpectedly strike her as being the byproduct and beautiful reward of years of kindness, benevolence, and charity—by the efforts of a heart beating for others. Rather than ugly and repulsive, she suddenly sees them as the proof of a lifetime and each line, she can see, is incredibly full of a compassion which has its own respective story.

Oh, now where is her head running off to? Silly musings and fanciful pictures—she shuts off her imagination, but she cannot quite immerse herself in realistic, strictly as-is mentality.

"Well…one of my friends…he is, well…in really bad trouble," she answers the question posed to her.

"What kind of trouble, sweetheart?" the older woman asks as she reaches beneath the bench to grab a convenient box of tissues underneath.

"Well…" she tries, again, but she hates the words and doesn't want to say them. "Well, he's…he's…going to die."

"Oh, honey," is the sympathetic whisper as arms encircle her again and draw her near, and she lets herself be pulled into the hug. A few tears leak down her face, but she does not sob, as she is held tight. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I just can't understand why he just wouldn't tell us," London says as she pulls away from the woman and takes a tissue from the box.

"You do not have this information from him yourself?"

"No. A…a mutual…friend told me." Why the questioning? This is something awful, heartbreaking! Why are words being spared to it?

She feels a gentle hand stroke her hair, but she does not protest as she normally would.

"Maybe your friend is wrong," the old woman begins, haltingly, then stops. Instead, she continues with, "Dear, perhaps it is not as ruining as the kind of death you fear—dying takes many forms. And there is always more than we see, beyond what we see. Rarely anything that seems to be certain is set in stone; one aspect of the nature of the world is change, and the future is rarely as set as it seems. You never know what is coming."

A comforting -yet, somehow, _wry_- smile turns the elder's mouth into a soft, altogether bemusing expression. Why is her look wry?

Yet London feels she has no time to puzzle the riddles presented to her, for she feels the inexplicable need to move on to the infirmary again. Thus, she stands, almost without considering everything, and finds herself determined to see Zack _alive_ and well. And then she will shake him a few times and demand to know why he would be so stupid as to do this to her.

She swipes a hand across her face, takes a deep cleansing breath, and steels her shoulders and herself, before she walks off to the infirmary without looking back. There is an urgency sinking into her bones, increasing and solidifying.

She speeds up.

"_It's better to cry than to be angry. Anger hurts others, while tears flow silently through the soul and cleanse the heart." -anonymous_

-0-

**Author's Note:** Uh...thoughts? I do not think I can think of any questions to pepper at your brains. A side note for _me_ to make would be that I may one day write a one-shot based on London's flashback, but not told from her perspective. I know some details and such, which I could write a story from, so if you ever see a one-shot about it in the future, you will get to say you heard it here first! Kind of...

**More importantly**, I am interested in hearing what the readers would like to see next. Zack? Cody? Bailey? Woody? Carey? I am starting this next week of writing without any, even vague, idea of what I will write. So you could very well influence the next step of the story if you don't mind casting an idea, thought, or vote on something! Give it a shot! It's not hard. There's this review button and you can share whatever you are thinking...nifty, aye?

Vocabulary:

churlish - (1) **crass**: _characteristic of somebody with bad manners_; (2) **unkind and grumpy**: _surly, sullen, or miserly_

brolly - _U.K._ Same as umbrella

pallid - (1) **pale**: _having an unhealthily pale complexion_; (2) **lackluster**: _lacking color, spirit, or intensity_

timorous - **timid**: _showing fear or hesitancy_

bore - (3) **tidal wave in river**: _a large powerful wave that the tide causes to move up a river or narrow estuary_

woebegone - **sorrowful**: _feeling or looking distressed or sorrowful_

veneer - (4) **deceptive appearance**: _a superficial appearance or show put on to please or impress others_


	17. Counting Breaths

Falling Through the Cracks  
>by <strong>Aimme<strong>,  
>with touches by <strong>My Note Book<strong>

**Summary: **His mask was flawless. His walls were perfectly structured. Protection and cautionary containment at its finest. Even a perfect pretend held fractures, though, and no matter how strong his glue, under the right circumstances, glue cracked and had to be gutted and filled in again.

**Author's Note:** Let me just say... this chapter went through a lot of editing this week. The beginning part was originally longer, as the flashback stole the keyboard and grew itself. Do not be surprised if sometime soon I post a one- or two-shot about it, since I have a good start already, or rough draft at least, sitting on my hard-drive now. Then I wrote the second part of this chapter...then I ended up adding more to the second part, until it almost feels to me more along the lines of a rewrite of what I had just written a few hours before. Yeah. Fun stuff. But yes, the first part does serve a purpose. And this chapter is dedicated with all the writer love I can muster to our faithful reader, **BlackKeys96**.

**BlackKeys96**, I am glad you enjoyed the look into London's character! I felt there is more to her, as well, than we are led to think. There are hints at it here and there in the two series, so I decided to take a closer look at that. It is still vague, but we can definitely see she is deeper than she lets on, at least. Seeing her heart and her feelings for those she cares about is very touching. As for the mysterious old lady, I suppose we might find out later, or we might not...feel free to draw your own conclusions for now! And you are welcome! This chapter is for you, and I hope you enjoy it just as much as all the ones before, if not more!

-0-

Chapter Seventeen - Counting Breaths

-0-

"_Tell me when the time we had slipped away  
>Tomorrow turned to yesterday<br>And I don't know how"  
>-(How to Say Goodbye) Michael W. Smith<em>

_-  
>*Flashblack*<br>_

_She folded her arms. "Well, boys, want to explain yourselves?"_

_Zack glanced at Cody, but his brother's bowed head did not move. In fact, if anything at all, he withdrew into himself more. Carey's disappointment was tangible and her disapproving tone was obvious—yet she would be willing to give them the benefit of the doubt if they gave her a good reason._

_Still, Zack's jaw set and his stubborn silence seemed to the puzzled mother to intensify. She saw his hands fist at his side, and that dark look on his face was not suiting for a five-year-old's expression—this was deemed so by the worried mother in her as she took note of her eldest's brooding aura._

_She sighed aloud, exasperated, but even as she opened her mouth to reiterate her question, Zack suddenly shifted and dropped his gaze away from his brother and she heard him mutter, "Dratted bullies."_

_Her blood ran cold. She'd heard stories; she knew the things that could happen, but surely her boys would have mentioned something if some punk kiddo was harassing them, right? She had always figured if there was a problem, they would tell either her or Kurt. Had she been wrong? Was this boy who had already been sent home a bully giving them trouble?_

_That might actually explain some things…like why __Cody__ had been in a fight, or the perturbed aura surrounding her oldest._

_She wondered if Zack's reticence and brooding mood was because he was disconcerted that he was unable to protect Cody._

_But really, could she know that? She supposed not._

_*End Flashback*  
>-<em>

Carey sighed and rubbed her neck, feeling somehow wearier than normal as she returned from practice. Already, it felt as though it had been an inexplicably long day. Hassling with her sound crew, mediating disputes between employees (_why_ did everyone turn to _her_ for advice?), assisting Esteban with a fight between he and Francesca, and directing the repairs after Arwin's latest mishap with _another_ explosion (really, who had decided it would be okay to let that guy play with power tools?)—the only thing missing from this crazy day would be either thwarting her boys' next asinine exploit or picking up the pieces afterward and settling an uptight Moseby as he threatened military camp and SWAT teams and having Mr. Tipton "get rid of" the twins.

She had noted this absence from her life, as she had found herself doing often at times over the last three years. Maybe that was why she was visiting memory lane, though why she had remembered that day so long ago, she did not know. Other than eventually getting treats and making her boys smile again after their incident at school the last day before Christmas break, and the odd incident itself, she was not sure what was so outstanding about that memory that it would stick out to her.

Maybe she missed them.

She glanced at the picture frame on the side-table near the door as she kicked off her shoes, one hand resting on the table for balance as she loosed the straps. Smiling faces greeted her in all their inanimate yet precious state.

Scratch that. She _did_ miss them. It was a sharp, bittersweet pang deep in her heart.

She touched the picture, fingers lingering over the face of her youngest. This was an old picture now, as she rarely received pictures with both of her twins in them at the same time, and certainly not standing for the picture together even if they were both in it.

She didn't know what that was about, but regardless, she treasured every picture. She found herself deciding she didn't get _enough_ pictures and she should really tell them to send more and more often. Well…tell _Cody_ to send more pictures. Zack rarely bothered with even _emailing_, and when he did, it was short and to the point—not informative in the least. And Cody had long ago stopped sending her news about her oldest.

She lifted her gaze to the two picture frames on the wall above the table, a recent picture of each which Cody had brought with him for Christmas when London bought him airfare to come see her. (She had wondered to Cody why Zack hadn't come and he had shrugged, and said, "London didn't buy him airfare, too?" in a questioning voice so that she wasn't sure what to make of _that_.)

Unable to resist smiling back at the captured images of her sons, the twist of her lips was tainted with sorrow and the bittersweet longing and recollection of a mother's heart.

When had they grown up? When had they gotten so tall? Wasn't being a mother hard enough without having to learn how to let go time and time again?

The phone rang, startling her from her thoughts. Her smile became a touch more strained when the ID registered Mr. Moseby as the caller, as she wondered exasperatedly what mess her boys (read: Zack) had gotten into which required the manager to _call_ her. Normally he just waited until he saw her in person or he sent her heated emails in the evening after he got off work.

Fond disbelief and vague annoyance (_'what have you done __this__ time?'_) making her shake her head, she picked up the phone. "Hello?"

"_Tell me where the road ahead is gonna bend  
>And how to harness up the wind<br>And how to say goodbye"  
>-(How to Say Goodbye) Michael W. Smith<em>

-0-_  
><em>

***Zack's POV***

"_Start to feel the emptiness  
>And everything I'm gonna miss<br>I know that I can't hide"  
>-(Come Back Down) Lifehouse<em>

"Mr. Martin, Mr. Martin," the voice ebbs and flows in my ringing ears, the volume fluctuates and is distorted as though I am deep underwater. Someone shakes me and the dizziness in my head swirls maddeningly, making a nauseous feeling sink into my gut—and I don't understand why I am being tormented so. Haven't I taken enough of a beating already?

I am jolted around, a firm grip pulling my hands away from my head. Why were they there? Scrabbling in my hair, looking for something to ground me, but I couldn't breathe, I couldn't breathe.

There is a burning where my chest should be and an overwhelming sense of panic overriding every coherent thought. Can't I just be left alone? No…no, I don't want to be left alone. There is dread in my mind, and I know this isn't going to end well. I don't want to be alone.

Cody…where is Cody? I could have sworn I had heard him, felt him, but everything is slipping away now. Empty. Desolate. I don't feel steady, I don't feel right. Why am I shaking, hurting?

My cheek suddenly smarts from a sharp slap, and the suddenness of that sting causes me to gasp, air rushing into my crashing lungs. Oh but it hurts. It hurts _so_ bad.

"There now, that's more like it, you stubborn intransigent," the disembodied voice continues and the sound grates on my nerves. My head is spinning and splitting, and I would much rather curl up and sleep until I cannot remember the fuzzy details vying to be noticed in my mind.

Another catch of air slips into my mouth, but my chest feels heavy, like when Kirby fell on Cody and I. The weight is stifling, overbearing; it defeats me.

My vision blurs in and out, double-images and vague shapes swimming before me, as I blink my eyes open, trying to understand the visual input along with the rest of the jumbled mess boiling within me. But I swear I cannot _see_, because while the blurry world around me fills my sight, nothing makes sense, nothing has relativity, significance; nothing registers.

A breath which feels more reluctant than blessed presses into my lungs, and the voice still assaults my ears.

"That's it, in and out. In, out. On time. Deep in, one, two, three, four, five…"

Too out of it to really think straight, I comply heedlessly.

"Six, seven…now out, one, two, three…"

Where am I? Why does my chest ache, my head pound with the strangely sluggish, unwilling beat in my rib-cage, my ears ring, and a vague sense of unease instil unsteady tremors in my limbs?

"Four, five, six, seven…It's okay, just breathe…ten, eleven… now in, one, two, three… Just relax and keep breathing. You are alright… now out, again…slowly, slowly…"

I force myself to slow my exhalation as instructed, trying to force the ill, anxious knot in my stomach to relax. I blink, the world slowly coming into perspective and focus, the input making the connection in my brain and registers.

Nurse Moustache leans over me, and I absently note that I am prostrate on the infirmary bed now, though I do not remember laying back. My wrist is gripped in her hand, and as I tilt my head to listlessly take that in, one abstract, far corner of my mind realises she is monitoring my pulse.

Breathing in deeply again, to the count of seven she voices, I try to remember what happened. Vague snatches of haunted memories swim through my mind, but the flat response of lost vitality holds me compliant and quiet. I don't really care anymore.

Why did I have to wake up again?

"Five, six, seven, eight…"

Oh. The reason would be that caregiver insistent on me keeping my breathing steady. She had forced me to wake up, to maintain a conscious state and to suck unwilling air into unwilling lungs.

Wasn't there something more beyond that? Something before that? What was that vague, hopeful feeling clinging at the edges of my memory, fuzzy and prickling but there and something promising…

Echoes resound and recede in my mind, and an unexpected sob jerks me.

"Steady breathing, Mr. Martin. Steady there," the voice is reassuring yet firm. "Shh. You are well. It is okay."

I hardly believe her. What does she know? Yet I am too spent to fight back and refute. Another muffled sob hitches my breathing—as I am too removed and weakened and jumbled to control it.

"It is alright. Breathe in, Mr. Martin. To the count of seven. One, two…"

Shaky and breathless, panic and turmoil escalate in my thoughts. Suddenly desperate, I tug at the wrist held captive in her merciless grip. In this confinement, I am suffocating. I am going to die…

My weakened body is bolstered by the emotions awash inside of me, the fuel from my terror giving me the strength to give a harsh tug, and I can feel myself released from her hold. A momentary hint of relief flashes through me, but it is quickly quashed by the panic running rampant ravages throughout me.

I don't know how, but I _know_ this place will be the death of me. There is something wrong, and it spells danger for me. I have to get away, I have to…

I sit up and she doesn't stop me, but does touch my shoulder.

"Mr. Martin, I need you to listen to me, listen to me."

I don't want to. I need to _go_…I am going to be overcome, this is the end…another sob wracks my frame.

What is wrong with me? I try to lift my hands, but they are shaking so much I can scarce believe they belong to me, but they do…I stare at them, as if I do not register what is before me, but I know…

I know that ruthless voice inside of me is right. Even as my breathing hitches and jerks haphazardly, I know I am done for.

"Please do not run. Try to breathe. A deep breath, in, now. Come on; you can do it."

And what if I can't? What if I can't even do that? Another pitiful, dry sob jerks out, and my body is shaking so much it is a wonder I have not toppled off the bed.

"Calm down. Whatever it is, we can work through it. I won't confine you, but try to calm yourself, Mr. Martin."

I can't. I can't.

"Are you responding to something in the past or what's going on right now?"

Breathing quick and laboured and ragged, I try to make sense of what _is_ going on in my head. But my thoughts are jumbled, chaotic, and incoherent. What's that about the past is the future, the future is the past? Why do I remember a taunting, grinning punk tearing my brother down? What _am_ I responding to?

Am I still in the infirmary? Sweet life, _why_ am I still _here_?

"It is alright. Take a deep breath to the count of seven. Come on, you can do it…breathe in…" the voice is calming, reassuring, and firm.

I breathed in. _One, two…fistfights, screaming parents fighting again, Cody falling, falling…_ A hitched breath. _Count. Count…what is my count? One, two, three, four…the first time words against my level of intelligence were spoken, what was it? I was slow? I frequently acted out, I didn't pay attention to the lesson, I refused to learn my alphabet…_

"Mr. Martin."

_Count. Five, six, seven…out…one, two…three…_

"That's right. That's good. Eleven count."

…_I needed Riddlin, it was the only course of action now; discipline would have been recommended, but I was already a lost cause…_

A dry sob.

"Keep the count, Mr. Martin. Try to focus only on your breathing. I will get you some water."

Another fresh wave of panic washes over me. Alone. I am alone. Again. I didn't particularly like her, but any company is better than what is in my head, what is overpowering me. What is killing me.

I can't breathe.

_In deep…one, two, three…_

I barely stop myself from reaching out after her. Why does everyone leave me?

"_You'll always be alone, Zack."_

"_Shut up. You don't know anything."_

_A malicious smirk. "Yes I do. Say, any clue where your __brother__ is, __Zackary__?"_

Forgotten. Always forgotten.

The next breathless sob catches in my throat. What is wrong with me? Have I been reduced to some pathetic, whimpering sissy? Yet I cannot get control.

"Even breaths, Mr. Martin. I said even breaths. Come on, you can do it. Let go of whatever it is. Deep, even, steady breath. Now exhale."

_Eleven count. Focus on eleven…not…not everything else…_

"That's better. Now drink."

Water. It has never sounded so appealing. Throat dry and lips numb, I struggle to get a drink.

"Slowly, Mr. Martin."

The water catches in my dry throat, but I manage past it, swallowing the coughs and the sputtering that wanted to follow.

"Now breathe."

Right. My seven-eleven count.

"Good. Now, take this pill."

My head snaps up finally, and I focus my dizzy gaze on her. "No."

She frowns. "Mr. Martin, it will help calm your system and help you relax. Another panic attack on the heels of a previous one is a serious occurrence. At this rate, you will be lucky if I don't have you admitted and-"

"Don't confine me," I snap out, but there is a pleading, desperate note in there I can hardly find myself caring for.

She tilts her head, reaches out a hand. I flinch. She touches my shoulder, instead, even as she says, "I'm not going to hit or hurt you," in response to my reaction. Then she says, "This is not a confinement, Mr. Martin. No one is out to get you. Everything is alright. It _is_ okay."

"No, no, it isn't."

She sighs. "Why would I lie to you? I may be a medical professional, but one does not play around with panic attacks. You need to take this pill."

I shake my head.

"What is your aversion to it?" she asks, in a surprisingly gentle voice.

Why does she keep pestering me? Why does she keep interrogating me?

"Stop. Just leave me alone." My breath hitches again.

She pulls back, then suddenly sits beside me. "Alright. Listen to me, Zackary," I almost don't notice she uses my name, but in some corner of my mind, I abstractedly note it. She rests a hand on my back and begins to rub. "I want you to focus on my touch and breathe. Think about anything else."

I try, but thinking about _anything_ else isn't helping. Anything else can involve…

"_Come on, boys."_

"_Where are we going?"_

"_We're leaving."_

"_Why?"_

"_Because. You will understand when you are older, Zack."_

"_I don't want to!"_

"_I know you don't, but we have to. You will understand-"_

"_Shut up. Just shut up."_

'_I still don't understand, Mom. I still __don't__.' _I blink back the sudden moisture in my eyes.

Something is slipped into my hand. I notice Nurse Moustache has handed me a small, white pill.

It could be anything. What is she trying to do, poison me?

"Focus on my touch, Mr. Martin. Seven count, come on. One, two, three…"

I breathe, the steady rhythm easing some of the tension, but not much.

What does it matter what she has given me? If it gets me out of this, through whatever means it comes by, isn't that better?

_The fist collided with Cody's face…red, I saw red…and a haughty grin and patronizing glee…and I reacted. Flesh colliding with flesh didn't satisfy my desire to remove the horror from my veins, the image of my brother collapsing to the ground with a pained cry, the horrible sound echoing in my ears over and over and over again…I hit that grinning face, but no matter how much heat and force and fury came with it, it didn't expel the bile rising in my throat or the brilliant haze overriding my thoughts…_

Oh forget it. Poison or not, anything is definitely better than this.

I pop the pill into my mouth and gulp down more water.

"That's it, Mr. Martin," the voice is soothing, and all of my panic fills me with misgivings—she's just glad I took the pill. Who knows what it actually _is_.

Who cares? Seven-eleven count. _Out…one, two, three…_

"It's okay. It is all going to be okay. Don't worry. We will get through this."

I snort, a surprisingly wet noise. I blink, suddenly realising there is moisture in my eyes, my eyes which see more than is there and less than what _is_ there.

Slowly, counting breaths, I can feel the tension ebbing, painfully slow, from my body as a steady breathing count triggers my parasympathetic nervous system response. The catalyst which it is, it causes my muscles to start to relax.

My shoulders droop. My chest hurts, my lungs burn, and part of me is still screaming I can't breathe, but I count. I count anyway.

_Eight, nine, ten, eleven…in, one, two…_

A sense of calm slowly begins descending.

"That's it, Mr. Martin. Let it go. Let go. Relax. Breathe steady, deep. It's okay. You're alright."

I breathe in deeply again and again and again, and I can feel myself begin to steady. Some of the shakiness leaves me and I begin to think clearly, coherently.

"Mr. Martin, I am going to check your pulse now, alright?" She holds up her hands and I glance at her from the corner of my eye, not bothering to turn my head. She awaits my answer, so slowly I give her a nod, returning my attention to directly in front of me.

She reaches for my wrist, and I battle panic at the irrational thought of being confined. I combat it with another deep breath. _One, two, three, four, five…_

She holds my wrist and focuses her gaze on the clock on the wall a few feet from us.

My head hurts. Awful. Light-headedness is slow in leaving me, but the ache I know will persist for an even longer while yet.

Minutes pass, minutes I can only get through by refusing to think of anything except the mantra in my head. At last she must be satisfied, because she releases my wrist.

I switch to a five-nine count, feeling utterly exhausted and worn out. I could sleep for days.

"That is better," she says, standing up. "Keep the steady breathing now, sir."

She suddenly frowns severely, eyes dark. "Mr. Martin, would you care to explain yourself or should I give my medical opinion on what that all was?"

I glance away, blinking at the unsteady, nasty feeling behind my eyes. _Breathe in deep, five count…_

"Picture this, then, Mr. Martin. I leave for but a handful of minutes and return to find you passing out from an oxygen deprivation of severe asthmatic likeness. Are you prone to asthma, Mr. Martin?"

Slowly, I force myself to open my mouth and answer. My tongue feels leaden and clumsy, but I manage to admit, "Stress-induced." _Breathe out, nine count…_

From my peripheral, I can see her eyebrows rise the slightest bit as she questions, "Do you have an inhaler?"

I give a stiff, silent nod.

"And where is it?" she demands. What, had she checked my person for it? That is kind of unnerving.

I shrug helplessly. "My room?"

Her frown hardens. "You are aware of how severe your attacks are?"

I drop my eyes, swallowing in dread. "Yes," I whisper gruffly, a sense of dejection descending on me. Condemnation followed me like the plagues in ancient Egypt.

"And you don't carry your inhaler _with_ you?" The incredulity is obvious.

I am not going to explain myself to this nurse. I hardly see it is any of her business. I shrug again, then after a moment or two, in which she exhales heavily in exasperation, I say, "It was the panic attack."

Her brows rise. "A panic attack brought this on initially?"

I hate having to explain everything to her, but I feel somehow compelled to have to tell her these things, as she is -unfortunately- my attending physician. And there is no getting out or concealing what happened. If I want to leave here, I know I have to divulge some information to her to satisfy her medical obligations.

So I give the slightest nod I can muster and count my breath. _…six, seven, eight, nine…_

She is quiet for but a moment, then, arms folded and foot tapping the floor, she says, "Mr. Martin, your medical file has no mention of asthma anywhere. And why would I bet my paycheck I will get that patient information form back from your brother and the 'no' will be check marked beside asthma?"

I grit my teeth and remain quiet.

"Mr. Martin, your file holds no hint of asthma or other breathing problems nor panic attacks, yet you seem familiar with your symptoms. And your inhaler?" she questions.

"Over-the-counter," I finally answer the query posed over all this. "I don't have a prescription because I have never been to a doctor for a diagnosis, whether for the asthma or panic attacks. And _no_, my family _doesn't_ know about either. Does that settle it for you?"

Her eyes flash fire at my irritated tone, but I hardly care. I would much rather leave and deal with my own problems by myself. It has never been anyone else's business, so why does it have to be hers now? I know why. Because Cody dragged me here.

And then left me.

"No! No, Martin, it does not," her glare is heated and her tone matches. "Why have you never sought professional medical attention for these problems?"

I laugh, a sharp, bitter bite—a travesty of laughter if there ever was one. "Do you think I have money to pay for the ridiculously high fees you and your buddies charge people? As if I could _afford_ to visit a doctor and then pay for a prescription inhaler. And I most certainly will _not_ put my mom out _more_."

Something in her face suddenly changes, and I am nearly unsettled by the way her rough, sharp features soften. Nearly, but not entirely. Most of me doesn't want to care about a thing.

Nobody thinks I think about these things, but I do. I haven't forgotten the feeling of being a burden, and I rather doubt I ever will. I ask for petty cash from my parents, but I cannot bring myself to ask for _that_ much money.

No. I find ways to get by with counting breaths and using the over-the-counter inhaler and dealing with the side-effects it sometimes causes.

"Well." She finally says. "You certainly are in rare form today."

"You caught a bad day." I snipe back.

Her eyes glitter with some thought I cannot understand. "Perhaps." She stares hard at me. "Or perhaps not."

I resist the sudden urge to squirm, suddenly afraid she is seeing right through me. _No…no what she said didn't mean she thinks she's seeing the real me. And that would make it a good day on that count. No, no…that's not what that meant…_

_Deep, even breaths. In, out. One, two, three…_

"Regardless, Mr. Martin," she speaks.

I hide a wince. Does she have to call me 'Mr. Martin' every time? I hate to admit it, but it makes me feel worse. It makes me feel held accountable for my actions and that every single one she is aware of is deplorable—that I should know better.

I do know better. I know best. And the best to be done _is_ what I am doing. How could I talk to any of my family about my panic and asthma? They don't need that. Mom doesn't need that stress. And if _Cody_ should know…I don't even want to know what would happen. It is best for him not to know. He is safe…and he is safer that way.

"You need an inhaler, prescription strength. Those over-the-counter ones have side-effects; they are rescue medication, not long-lasting treatment. Your asthma is too harsh, too severe for those inhalers to make the cut. You need more than they can do for you."

Feeling the impulse to grit my teeth again, I sigh heavily and push myself to my feet, where I waver, unsteady.

I know what I am up against; I know what I am dealing with and the risks involved. The last thing I need right now is a lecture. "That's easy for you to say, Nurse, but I can't come by one. And I will _not_ have my mom take me to a doctor to be diagnosed and get the prescription."

"Where do you think you are going?" she asks as I steel myself to move forward.

"I would like to _leave_ now. Isn't that obvious?" I quip back sarcastically, forcing a haughty grin across my numb lips. I try to step around her, but she simply grabs my arm.

I jump, nearly wrenching my arm from her grip. As if realising her mistake, she lets go and I exhale in relief.

"You cannot leave yet, Mr. Martin. I have not checked all of your vitals, and I most certainly have not released you."

Remembering how long she kept Mr. Moseby when he was in here after Kirby had fallen on him and how confined she had kept him, I breathe in deep, steady and even. "I am _not_ staying," I grind out firmly. I also remember the times I have been kept here, and I do not feel inclined to catch the next rerun of those particular episodes.

"You will leave when I say so," she pushes me back on to the bed, because I am too weak and unsteady to resist. "Look at yourself. You're pale as a snowman in deep northern winter, you're cold and clammy and unsteady. And it is no wonder. Now, sit and regain your equilibrium. Regulate your breathing and for your own sake, do stop being so uneasy and stop panicking!"

Easy for _her_ to say.

My head spins, but I focus on another breath. The repetition is mind-numbing, but perhaps that is better than the ache trying to pound its way out.

I have to get through this, and she has to let me go. Scrambling for any semblance of normalcy, anything which would translate as normal to the rest of the world, anything that will register as me being fine, I plaster a smile on my face. "You know, Nurse _Moustache_, most people say 'you're pale as a wraith' or that you 'look as though you've seen a ghost.'"

Her brows draw together, and her sharp, hawk-like gaze zeroes in on me as she pauses where she is, retrieving some medical implement. "_Moustache_, Mr. Martin?" she demands. "Is that supposed to be humorous?" she asks sharply.

I can ride this out.

I shrug. "It makes me laugh." I try, so hard, to not let my smile reveal the strain with which it is painted on my face.

"You would think someone your age would be above name-calling, but who can account for _young ones_ these days?" she snaps back as she turns away, but I have the sudden realisation the quip is just as baited as my own banter.

I snort. "Nurse _Moustache_," I repeat and I can see her eyes narrow, "I am not a child." How long would I be having to convince everyone around me of this?

"Good," she quips back, turning around, "Then you might just try acting like an adult. Buck up and take this like a man, Mr. Martin. I have to check your vitals."

Exhaling in exasperation, I slump where I sit on the mattress, dejected.

_One, two, three, four…_

"_Start to breathe and fake a smile,  
>It's all the same after awhile"<br>-(Come Back Down) Lifehouse_

-0-

**Author's Note:** If Zack seemed odd at places, let me explain: he was having a panic attack. People act irrational, emotional, erratic when they have them. Panic is the overriding thought and certainty of doom is the only logical thing which connects in one's mind, so keeping the person calm, being reassuring, comforting, and firm with them is the best course of action. You don't hold on to them, as that can make it worse; confining them, or even the thought of being confined, can compound the issue; it is best not to deny their fears or tell them they are being ridiculous or overreacting, but simply assure them "it's okay."  
>So that helps explain Nurse Hatchet's behaviour, too. Being a nurse, I think she would know this. But she is also a rough-edged, jaded woman, so that was still showing through, too. Zack being stupid about his health does not sit well with her.<p>

I found this chapter interesting, in the disjointed snapshots of background we received. I, myself, know a little bit more already (or basic ideas) about what some of those memories were about or what they mean, but I would love to hear thoughts from you readers! Why would he be remembering these memories while having a panic attack? There you go. There's a question to consider.

But don't be fooled! There was a lot of interesting tidbits in the first part, both the beginning flashback and the following scene with Carey. I can't say much, but I can definitely say there are some interesting things to ponder in there, too.

Vocabulary:

intransigent - (n) **unyielding person: **_somebody who refuses to compromise or change an attitude or decision, especially in politics_

travesty - (1) **false representation: **_a distorted or debased version of something_

* * *

><p><strong>Important Notice:<strong>

I will not have access to a computer for writing starting tomorrow and lasting for most of the upcoming week. After that, I have preparations for a wedding I have to help with the rehearsal dinner for in barely two week's time. As you can see, these things will keep me busy and occupied, which brings me to my point: **I will not be able to update next week.**

I feel exceedingly bad to have to miss a week, but I have little choice. It is my _intention_ to make sure I only miss _one_ week, but looking at what is ahead, I cannot promise an update on the 10th either, though I will certainly try to get back that soon. _I am not abandoning this story._ If nothing else, it holds too much appeal, and I would not dream of leaving my readers hanging. I just have to delay an update by a little extra time, but time which is not indefinite and should be over shortly.

_My apologies.  
><em>


	18. One Good Reason

Falling Through the Cracks  
>by <strong>Aimme<strong>,  
>with touches by <strong>My Note Book<strong>

**Summary: **His mask was flawless. His walls were perfectly structured. Protection and cautionary containment at its finest. Even a perfect pretend held fractures, though, and no matter how strong his glue, under the right circumstances, glue cracked and had to be gutted and filled in again.

**Author's Notes:** This is when you ask, "Aimme? You still alive?" in your best incredulous Mr. Moseby voice. Go ahead. Give it a shot. You know you want to, because you know you've wondered...you've had to wonder...because, in all honestly, I have been really and truly absent. Yet, obviously, yes, I am still alive. You may now all release a sigh of relief you were holding for this story.  
>So, one would think that after all of this time, I would have more written and a smashingly amazing chapter to share. No. I don't have anything written past this (well, <em>re<em>written; I have a rough draft), and the jury's still out on how good this chapter is.  
>By the way, Cody's part does serve a purpose. It shows something...something that is revealing about what will happen after this.<p>

**BlackKeys96**, you are welcome for the dedication! I am glad you enjoyed chapter 17. I have to agree with you on the flashback. Zack definitely has a strong protective side of Cody even though he doesn't show it very often; I am glad you liked getting to see it! Dark thoughts, indeed, and yes, at the tender age of five! (Maybe one day we'll see what he was thinking.) I enjoyed writing Carey and her musings. And you're right, it is hard for mothers, and I think it is summed up best in this line, "Wasn't being a mother hard enough without having to learn how to let go time and time again?" Although I do not know the specifics of what's to come after the ending of her scene, I am glad you liked the cliffhanger suspense of it! I was excited to hear you thought getting to see his thoughts during his attack was amazing! And it _is_ sad to see him like that, I agree. He is very emotionally damaged, and it is ruining him. I'm not sure why I decided to that he has stress-induced asthma, but it just seemed to just...fit. He has so many different sides and so much more to him. And you're right, it is very self-sacrificing of himself, but I think he just needs to come out about it and talk to his family. Cody's cluelessness shows that Zack is doing something exceptionally well, to keep it that hidden. Thanks so much for your well-wishes and your review! We both appreciated it very much. Once more, you're welcome for the dedication! You are such a dedicated and amazing reader! We hope we enjoy this next chapter!

**Kitsune**, thanks so much for your review! My Note Book and I were so excited to find a like-minded person! We feel sorry for him too, and I am glad that this story is refreshing for you! We hope to see you around more in the future!

And now, enjoy...

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Chapter Eighteen - One Good Reason

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***Cody's POV***

_"At the approach of danger there are always two voices that speak with equal force in the heart of man […] the other […] says that it is too painful and harassing to think of the danger, since it is not a man's power to provide for everything and escape from the general march of events; and that it is therefore better to turn aside from the painful subject till it has come, and to think of what is pleasant." -Leo Tolstoy (War and Peace)_

"Cody? Cody? Can you hear me, Cody? Yes, yes. Please stop staring straight through me. Cody?"

The voice washes over me. It doesn't make sense. It sounds distant and removed, as if disconnected from me.

Or am I disconnected from it?

"Cody? Cody, come _on_ now. _Seriously_."

I jerk. My cheek stings. I blink.

"Bailey?" I whisper.

She sighs. "_Yes_." Then, relieved, "Thank you."

I stare at her, uncomprehendingly, but much more aware than I previously had been when I last did that. "For what?" I ask blankly.

"You weirded out on me," she starts, and I can see her wringing her hands. "I dunno. Just, you were, like, staring straight through me. You wouldn't react…" she trails off into mumbling.

I lean towards her. "What was that?" Honestly, any form of conversation will be enough to ground me, and I need it. I need to be grounded after-after—whatever that had been. It had felt like drifting, plummeting, shattering, suffocating, and being suspended over a fathomless chasm all at once.

"I…I said…" she wrings her hands some more, avoiding my gaze. "You had this blank stare, like you weren't all there."

I nod, absently. My mind drifts, wandering…_wondering_.

She grips my arm and I return my preoccupied gaze to her. "What happened?" she asks.

I shrug, helplessly scrambling for answers of my own.

"Cody…" she starts, the hint of an edge to her voice.

I frown. "I…I don't know."

She raises an eyebrow. "You zone out, and you can't give me any kind of answer?"

I sigh, only now noticing that I had, at some point, lurched out of my seat on the bench and we are both kneeling on the floor of the hallway. The stiff carpet bristles prick my knees and I can feel the rough surface beneath my listless hands, which rest on either side of me.

"It felt…felt like suffocating," I start slowly, trying to articulate the confusing jumble of messages scrambled inside of my mind. Even my own thoughts, scattered as they are, do not make sense to me. "Forgive me if none of this makes sense, Bailey, my head hurts and nothing makes much sense to _me_ at the moment."

She gives me an uncertain nod, but I know I have to forge past that.

"It happened too quickly. It was like…the bitter taste of horror at the back of my mouth, the heart-pounding adrenalin rush of panic, and my lungs felt heavy and lax, as though I couldn't breathe. I felt like I was being crushed, everything darkened, and then, nothing. It was a quick flash, all of it, and then…just nothing," I wave my hand, frustrated at the confusing way my words sound. They seem stupid and crazy even to me. I snort. "My stomach was a frenzied tilt-a-whirl and my heart cramped, burned. Then everything settled, was like normal, except I suddenly felt…"

_Terrified for my brother_, I think, but do not tack on.

But Bailey nods firmly and wraps an arm around my shoulders. "You're overwhelmed. It's been a difficult day for you, I'm sure. Why don't you just sit down again and try to relax and don't think about it anymore."

I have to agree with her, but some part of me thinks there is no way I can just _not_ think about this.

Significantly calm, all things considered, I return to the bench, letting myself relax. Rubbing a weary hand over my face, I find myself disbelieving the way my day has gone. I want to forget this day ever happened, because it has been absolutely ridiculous.

Now, emotionally drained and rather done with all of this, I am ready to get myself calm and stay calm. Everything else before, all the varied emotions of this day—it is time to put it all behind me. Like the way you put a bad dream out of mind—you move on and don't let it affect you again.

That's what I'm going to do.

Mind made up, I catch sight of London barrelling down the hall. She fits the bill of the expression "on the warpath" and I tell myself I really would rather not note the haggard look beneath it. I would really rather not mess with it.

I would really rather _not_ deal with any more of this day.

_"The speed of the human mind is remarkable. So is its inability to face the obvious." Simon Mawer_

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***London's POV*  
><strong>  
><em>"Are you still hurting<em>  
><em>Even after all these years?<em>  
><em>And what's your explanation?<em>  
><em>Just give me one reason<em>  
><em>Just give me one good reason"<em>  
><em>-(One Good Reason) This City Awaits<em>**  
><strong>

For the first time in a long while, I don't care what kind of appearance I present. "Death has a way of rearranging one's priorities," the handsome Johnny Depp as the odd Captain Jack Sparrow had explained to one super-hawt Orlando Bloom character in that one movie about who-even-knows (that movie had a drool-worthy cast in its leads, but this is all beside the point).

What is my point? Oh, right.

I have one purpose in mind, and that was not how I looked. This time, I have to look into an unpleasant situation, and this time I do not care.

I have to see what I can do. I have to make it right.

I can do that, can't I?

Of course I can. I am London Tipton, and I always get my way. And this time, my way is for a noble cause.

And _that_ has to count for something.

So I round the corner, determined, and I barely acknowledge Cody and Bailey—in fact, I only note them in my peripheral, in some vague, disconnected side of my mind. I have more important things to be caring about than that, and I know I am nearly to my destination. I quicken my pace, hands fisting at my sides.

My world has zeroed in on one purpose, and I hurry towards the door, only to try it and find it locked.

I pound two harsh, sharp raps against the door.

"You kids again? Go away!" I hear a voice snap from the other side. "I will open the door in time!"

I am un-amused with her response, and none too happy to oblige. I am not in the mood for games or side-tracks or, bottom line, anyone getting in my way.

"No, you will open this door right now!" I bite, somewhat surprising myself by the dangerously protective note sneaking around in my tone. If I felt the need to divert brain energy to it, I would still mentally shrug it off. I roll with it. "Do you know who I am? I am London Tipton! I am the richest heiress in these waters, and I will blow you sky high and out of these waters if you don't open this door!"

I am not getting an immediate response, so I forge on without missing a beat. "I will have my daddy fire you," I lay out my plan of action, "and take away your license, and make it so hard for you to get a job you won't have a penny to your name—anywhere!"

I seem to have finally garnered the snooty attention of the brainless nurse on the other side, and she at last begins to turn the lock. It clicks, and not a moment too soon. I was ready to take even more drastic measures, because while Cody might be able to sit down the hall, wallowing, I was ready to take action—because I am ready to see one who had, somehow, managed to be -and become- a brother to me.

Where was I going with that?

Uh…

Oh, right.

I have to see Zack right now. I have to find a way to make this right. There has to be a solution, some way to fix things. If only money could stop death. If only this was all a matter of money, something to be neatly paid off and dismissed.

If only somehow all that money to my name actually had _value_.

I had already rushed through the opening door, giving the nurse no time to open it fully before I burst through. Now, I pause, because after casting a rushed look around the room, I did not spot him.

I turn on my heel. "Where is he?" I demand, and my voice holds so much emotion I am shocked, but I don't care much. I don't remember the last time I was this shaken, but I have to focus on the here and now, and the here and now involves a life slipping away. I have no time to lose.

"He's in the back," she says, snappish, but I have no time, _no time_, to threaten her again.

I rush into the adjoining room, grabbing the door frame to steady myself, swinging around the edge and into the back.

His head snaps up in surprise, and I barely have enough time to catch the alarm sweeping across his face before I have barrelled into him. I hadn't paused, for all I cared about was making everything alright, fine, perfect. I think I would lose my mind even more already if he actually…

"Zack!" I shout frantically, relieved, for some inexplicable reason, to see him sitting up and on the edge of the bed, alive and healthy. Of course I hadn't expected him to be…well…_dead._

I hate even thinking that word.

I had crossed the distance, tackled him in a hug, and I am crying hysterically now, I realise as I begin to register the last few moments, and it takes even more before I am able to speak, but Zack's arms are awkwardly around me as he pats my back all the same, more than likely unsure what to do with a hysterical heiress on his hands in _this_ manner.

Because, of course, he has dealt with me acting hysterical before. Just not in this manner. And this time, this time, the reason is profoundly different…profoundly worse. Isn't it?

And I can't lose him.

I take in a deep breath sharply, and, attempting to speak coherently, I instead go on to babble disjointedly, "It's all going to be alright. We're going to make it alright. Whatever you need, Daddy will pay for it! Doctor bills, medication, treatment, therapy—you're going to get it! I swear, whatever you need, you can have it." Are those big, fat tears still slipping down my face? What posh. What nonsense.

Yet there's nothing thoughtless about death, except that it is insensate. Which means it's not something to pass off as trivial twaddle.

And that reminds me about that funny word I discovered and have been meaning to use in a conversation with Zack. Too bad we rarely get to talk sense to each other. But that is beside the point, the point being the here and now, and the here and now being…

"Air," he barely manages to gasp out, and now I realise how tight I am hugging him.

"Oh, sorry," I say as I loosen my grip and place my hands on his shoulders, at last pushing myself back. I do not release his shoulders, though, as I stare into his eyes as he shies from meeting my gaze head-on. He looks exhausted, but I can see the sharp shards of his mask beginning to pull themselves back together and I know all too soon he will have once again mastered whatever issues are at him and displaced them from his face. He will look like some kind of normalcy we all expect and no one will be any wiser; everyone will know nothing of his reality.

I don't know much, but I know enough to recognise another hider. I recognise someone else who also wears a mask, even if I don't know what is being masked on the face beneath, of the truth beneath the braced lies.

I forge on in reply to his plea for air. "I don't think that's something I can buy. I'm pretty sure it's free, actually." I suddenly gasp brightly, as part of the part, as I continue trying to lighten the mood and bring a smile back to his face. "Maybe I should talk to Daddy about buying the copyrights to it and making other people have to cash-in for the air they breathe," I say stupidly, empty-headed idiot persona with a bright idea.

I get a smile for that.

But the smile quickly drops; he turns serious. "London, what are you talking about?" he references earlier, I know, and not to my blockhead get-even-richer-quick scheme.

I know exactly what he is trying to do, playing stupid. "You know what's going on. You out of all of us should know the most. And I am very mad at you for not telling anybody about this! How could you let me be the last one to find out?" I demand accusingly, suddenly feeling very vulnerable and betrayed.

He looks shocked and confused all at once. "London, I have no idea what you're talking about."

My face drops, I duck my head, and my chin trembles at just the thought of what is coming out next. "You're d-d-dying," I try to remind him, to put it so he can't beat around the bush with me, but I can't take anymore. I hate that word. So I let go of his shoulders, my hands move to my face and I cry into them. I cry hard.

"Wha-what?" his voice sounds surprised, startled.

I wipe my face with the sleeves of my jacket, then I look back up at him. He looks so lost, so shell-shocked. There was no way he could _not_ know that he was dying! How would everyone else know but him? I may not let on, but I do know sense—and that makes no sense.

Before I could say anything, question or clarify or rant, his words are heard before mine can be.

"How do you know?" he asks, and the sharp stab of confirmation runs my heart through. "Did Nurse Moustache say something?" I am the one too shocked, now, though; too shocked by what is coming our way. "London!"

I snap out of my sadness long enough to mumble, "N-no. Woody told me."

I am beginning to wonder what is going on, because his behaviour is odd, but he drops his head into his hands and his voice drags out, "What?"

And then I notice it on his arm. My arm snaps out, my grip snatches his left hand away from his face, and I look at it in horror. The white bandage stares back at my gaping from four inches above his left wrist.

"You promised me," I say disappointedly as I run my finger up and down the bandage. I note the gauze strip, and a queasy feeling sinks into my gut at the sight and the knowledge which comes with it. The bandage covers too much of his arm -and it is _gauze_- for it to be a scratch. I imagine it must be deep, too. Too much for a band-aid to handle.

"It was an accident," he says quietly.

I don't believe him. How can I?

"Don't you dare lie to me, Zackary!" I snap, suddenly furious. "You can pull that over on anyone else, but you can't fool me!" How could he lie to me? How dare he! After that promise? It may have been a long time ago now, a little over a year ago, but we had made each other a deal, a promise, a vow, that if and whenever things get to the point where we can't take life anymore, we would go and talk to each other.

We would be there for another. Help each other through.

We had agreed to help each other hold on and realise that it is just life, we'll win in the end, and I had kept up my part of the bargain. Whenever I thought I needed that knife, an escape, an out, a release, I would run to him for help…and he would remind me that it's hard right now, Daddy's got it all twisted, people are people and there will always be bad lots, but things will get better, the sun has to shine again, the seas have to calm, we continue to breathe.

And now as I sit here, rain-soaked memory of a morose and blank look on his face comes to the forefront of my mind again.

I never should have left him that evening, this is true. But there's no changing the past, we can only learn from it. Unfortunately, I've more blonde moments than is healthy, I'm sure, so a learning experience for me is kind of maze-like. Anyway…my point is, he never came and talked to me about whatever was bothering him that day, and as I now consider that he broke his promise to me, I know this _isn't_ the first time.

Now he was sitting here, _lying_ to me, having done this -this, having broken our promise- again, and he hadn't even tried to come and talk to me. I know, I know he didn't, because we haven't talked all day.

"Why didn't you come talk to me?" I say as tears threaten behind my eyes for the hundredth time today, but I look him in the eye, demanding an answer, demanding truth.

"I told you, London, it was an _accident_." He looks back at me with fire in his eyes; I know it is all an act he is trying to fool me with.

Deep in my heart, I know that deep in his he is scared that I can read him so well. I'm not even sure when that happened, but I suppose those who hide subconsciously recognise a fellow hider and we had just always known there was more to the other than met the eye and we never questioned it or brought it up. We've never even _discussed_ it, and yet we both _know_…

I know this scares him, it scares him that I know, yet he has a need—he needs someone to know what's what with him, and what he does to himself. I hadn't _known_ he cut, but I definitely _know_ now. There is no doubt in my mind. I can see straight through him to his core, though I don't understand everything or know everything or have it all clear in my head, and I know straight to the centre of who I am, he cuts.

Amazing, just knowing things, without having to say anything. Knowing things without ever opening up about it.

And I know, I know he doesn't need someone to feel sorry for him, but rather someone he can relate to and someone who would stop him from this. But I don't think I can do either, honestly. I have never cut, so we can't relate on that level, but I guess since we both hide, he can relate to me. But someone to stop him? He's still claiming it was an accident!

Not that I had never considered what cutting was like, had my share of times where I suspected I could understand why someone would disfigure themselves that way…

"_London!" I jumped at the unexpected voice, hearing the startle and horror in it. My head snapped up, distracted from my rather enthralled staring at the blade I held open in my hand. Zack stood there, a shocked, queasy look on his face. He rushed over, knelt in front of me._

"_London," he said softer, gently taking the blade out of my lax fingers, where I had been contemplating the merits of using it. To see if it would really help me feel better, less numb or more numb, or both, after the disappointment and pain upsetting me._

"_Don't do that," he looked up at me seriously. I hadn't laid blade to skin or even said anything, and my stomach twisted as I realised he just knew, just knew what had been going through my head. "It won't be worth it for you. You don't need to do that; it won't help you. I promise you that the means won't justify the end or the end improve the means."_

Zack's smarter than he gets credit for, but as I remember that day, so long ago, even before we had made our pact, I find my anger rises.

"You hypocrite!" I snap. "You told me it wasn't worth it!" I levied an accusation I felt was all too terribly true. "You promised me…" my voice dropped again.

"London-"

I don't want to hear another excuse about it being an accident. I can see in his face that is what he is going to repeat; I also remember that I know he is scared.

He's scared to open up that much, scared because he has before and people have abused and abandoned the trust he had in them (why do the names of his family come to mind?). They let him drop like a rock, only for him to not be as strong and hardy as they think him to be. Obviously.

It's like…it's like…it's like they walk all over him and then scrape him off their shoes as you would some particularly bothersome refuse, and then they walk off, like it all meant nothing. But, is it possible that they walk off as though they had _not_ just left someone dying and bleeding when in fact they did? I don't suppose I treat him much better, but my situation is unique, and by unique, I mean precarious, and by way of that, for the most part, I mean that I have to act aloof. But we see through each other's charade, don't we? We always recognised another song and dance routine, however much of a sham of insipid stupidity it is.

It seems to me, though, that whenever people need him, they come running back to him and completely ignore what they have done to him. I know I have done it, but as I said, my situation is sadly unique, and everyone else is without excuse and therefore not to be excused. And I know, whenever he _really_ needs people, he never says anything. It's obvious. He's never expected anyone to know, but there are some people he's well within his right to expect them to be there—and Cody is the perfect candidate of this example.

He needs someone by his side, especially considering his own twin brother has left him this way…

But how can I help him if he doesn't let me? I really want to, in the ways that I can when I can, but right now I am too mad at him.

"It was an accident," he insists staunchly.

"Zackary Martin!" I bark. "Stop it, or I'm going to slap you!" I threaten, and I am so close to following through with it.

"London, that's the truth!" he tries to convince me, but I won't have any of it—I am London Tipton, and what I won't have, I won't have. And I have had enough, and no more.

I react, but I am still fighting with myself. So although I put my hands up to his face, I slap one hand against the other instead of his cheek. Then, mind instantly changed, I follow back through and whack him a solid backhand.

The horrible, sharp sound lingers in the following silence. We freeze. Neither of us move, my hand in the air between us and his head turned to the side from the impact of my hit.

I am breathing hard and my hands begin to tremble. He blinks, dropping his gaze, looking a little stunned. Not physically (I didn't hit him that hard), but rather emotionally. Did either of us see that coming? Well, I _did_ warn him.

Slowly, his gaze travels back to mine; he looks at me briefly, then drops his eyes. Cody and Bailey enter then, but pause abruptly just inside the doorway.

"Hey, is everything alright in here?" Cody asks, his tone unequal parts concerned and cautious—mostly nonplussed, though.

I stare at Zack, feeling my insides still burning with anger at him. And at me. Mostly at myself, though. And Zack? Zack refuses to look at me, keeping his gaze riveted on the bed we're sitting on. He moves a fingertip ever so slightly on the sheet. I notice a red print of the back of my hand appearing on his face where I had slapped him.

_Ah Benjamin Franklin. Did I really hit him that hard?_

"Yeah," I answer Cody shortly, feeling frustrated. Shaking my head, I turn to the two. "Yeah, we're just _fine_ in here," I lie, but inwardly, it is a sarcastic reply. Still shaking my head, I push past them, heading out of the room. _Better say something London-ish_. "So keep it that way or I'll _fine_ you!"

Not the best, but it would have to work.

I ignore the nurse as I exit the infirmary, heading down the hall the way I had come.

_London, you idiot, you shouldn't have hit him. You know, he doesn't seem un-fragile right now._ While busy reprimanding myself, feeling horrible, I sink into the seat Cody and Bailey had been at earlier. _Why did I hit him, again?_ There is no response, other than the fact that I was mad at him. But is that reason enough? _Why?_ I can hear the monosyllabic question echo in my thoughts. I have never wanted to hurt him, least of all like that. I may get spiteful or rude or mean, but I don't _really_ want to hurt my friends or see them hurt.

I try to make sense of everything, but it isn't working. I feel hurt and angry and sorry; and I definitely feel confused, and I definitely feel like crying. I drop my gaze.

My hand, the one that has done this wrong, I realise has a diamond ring on. Now that I think about it, he's probably got more than just a red backward hand-print on his face, but also a raw spot where the edges of my ring bit into him.

"Great." I heave a heavy sigh.

_"Well I tried, with my fingers crossed behind my back_  
><em>I deny everything<em>  
><em>And this never happened, it's not what it seems<em>  
><em>And this is the way that it was meant to be for me<em>  
><em>To live and breathe in insecurities"<em>  
><em>-(Beautiful Start) This City Awaits<em>

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**Author's Notes:**Now that you have read it, anyone want to take a stab at what Cody's part foreshadows? (It's okay. Don't stress yourself over it; guessing isn't a huge deal.) And, for the record, being in London's head is kind of...funny. The way her mind jumps around or blanks out—it was fun to write. And there were several things mentioned in her part which I will get around to writing the stories to which they belong, eventually.

I hope, at least, that the chapter was _enjoyable_. I'm not sure if it will meet with approval, so I have to confess I am a little uneasy about that, but I'm going to let that go and just hit post. I can't apologise for writing the story the way I write it, and I can't very easily fight the way the story insists it must be written. (It occurs to me that writers have very little control over their stories.)

Vocabulary:

insensate - (1) **without feeling:** _inanimate and thus unable to feel anything_; (2) **cold and heartless:** _entirely lacking in sympathetic feeling or human kindness (formal)_

twaddle - **nonsense:** _nonsensical or pretentious speech or writing (informal)_

insipid - **dull:** _dull because lacking in character and lively qualities_


	19. The Biggest Joke of All

Falling Through the Cracks  
>by <strong>Aimme<strong>,  
>with touches by <strong>My Note Book<strong>

****Author's Notes:**** I _am_ alive. I mean, when I opened the file for this story, I nearly died by asphyxiation from choking on all the dust, but the keyword is "nearly." Obviously I survived, much to the annoyance of my characters and to the mostly pleased relief of my readers...I think. Life's been fine, but busy; family business? Not so much. And really, that's what's kept me from writing; certain affairs sucked all the drive for writing right out of me. Has anyone invented a cure for writer's block? Wait...don't tell me...writing?

Don't ask me where this is going. I don't think I know anymore.

**BlackKeys96**, you, out of everyone, I'd like to apologise to the most; you've been a most faithful and truly rewarding reader and I've had no way to contact you in all this time, like I have the others, to let you know anything about what's up. If you're still around and you read this, don't think I forgot about you. Please accept my humblest regrets, and my sincerest request that you get an account here so I can keep in contact with you (particularly when this story is over). As for your review of chapter 18, let me start off with saying thank you. I am glad that London's complexity appealed to you; the Zack and London friendship is an interesting one on the show, but it kind of became its own thing when I started exploring it, much more complex and intricate, yet startlingly simple when everything is considered, than we are truly able to get the feel for in the episodes. I think you are correct about London's anger, that she felt betrayed; in a way, she had been. I'm sure for Zack's part, he feels it's all about protection; protecting himself from being hurt again, but also, since he's been hurt so much, he figures there must be something wrong with him and he has to protect London from that. The slap was an interesting part to write, but I am happy to hear you liked the way it was handled. As for hurting vs. helping Zack, you're probably right. It's not something that will be thoroughly explored here, but I have a series planned out within this little "universe" I've created, and we'll probably see it explored more in those stories. As for Cody's part, I think, yes, he was feeling what Zack was feeling, or at least sensing it (twins already have their own sort of "twin sense" and Cody seems to have tapped into it), however briefly. Here's to hoping that I'll see you around...

**Ellahello2**, cry if you wish! I don't mind the caps lock, especially for such gracious praise. Thank you! It means a lot that you took the time to write a review. Thank you, also, for the favourites and the alerts.

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Chapter Nineteen - The Biggest Joke of All

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"_If weakness is a wound that no one wants to speak of  
>Then "cool" is just how far we have to fall"<br>-(I'm Not Alright) Sanctus Real_

He got what he deserves. His cheek stings, the pain lingering like the sharp imprint of the moment left on his brain. If there's a red mark, that would explain it; the memory will stick to him longer, though.

_London'll never speak to me again_, his little, self-degrading voice murmurs around in his head with a tone like a broken track record; weary and he's tired of hearing it. But that is that, isn't it? No refuting or changing. His self-debasement aside, London does tend to hold certain grudges…private armies sent to ex-boyfriends' homes ring a bell (yeah, he'd heard through the grapevine)? Case in point.

The reality is that as long as he can't change, the cycle continues; as long as he doesn't get things right, nothing will be. This weighty matter ate him away; it was like salt ground into the wound of his own entrapment.

He's caught somewhere between wanting to cry miserably and laugh hysterically, because the irony and bitter gall of it all keeps him so unbalanced. Except, he didn't feel like laughing, and crying was his weakness and the prison inside his prison, and he's also had enough of it for one day. Crying was all well and good in its proper context (that is, in private), but blubbering like a baby didn't fit his agenda.

He shoves a snide, sneering little voice into a corner of his mind and knocks it out.

"Zack, what happened?" Too bad it's not so easy to knock that voice out neatly. Cody's confusion is so ironic, he almost laughs, and it would've had bitter undertones because the overborne note in his twin's voice embitters him all the more.

What is he, Mr. Fix-it-All? He can't contend with Cody's issues for him, so he'd appreciate not being looked at to make anything better.

"We heard yelling."

Oh, that.

Well, this isn't how these days go…dragged out and spiralled out of control? Sure, _he_ was that way on these days, but where in the world had all this drama come from? Time for their semblance of normalcy, a quicksilver smile and empty-headed talk, a few jokes; back in place.

Mask. Like a switch. Flip. Life is back to normal.

Zack flashes a grin, like the freakin' Cheshire cat (personally, he'd always found that cat creepy); like he's got to tell them the most hilarious thing since Woody gave up pork for Lent and the all-you-can-eat buffet had bratwurst for lunch that same day, whereupon Woody indulged his salivating mouth and announced that for Lent he was going to "give up giving up something for Lent."

"She asked me if her outfit went with the infirmary. I told her that for all I knew, it looked like last year's trash." Then across that grin appears an orgulous quirk, smug self-belittlement in his eyes creating an oxymoron in the mix that was his expression.

The two shoot incredulity his way, as if questioning his audacity and especially his sanity.

He forces himself not to scowl, a nasty snarl stifled. _Why do you even want to know? Why d'you think you care?_ The small, bitter words are as good as glued inside his mouth. The fight of his locked-up-tight, real self has cooled and retreated to that cozy little cage he has for himself, and he's back to that outwardly "normal." And he's okay with that.

He has to be.

"Zack…" Bailey begins in her conflicted-girl tone. He'd name the emotions warring in her voice as astonishment and some sort of couched sorrow. What's with her?

He surreptitiously casts a studying glance over her; she's slightly behind his brother, and it makes him think of being used as a human-shield. She has an anxious grip on Cody's hand. She looks…frazzled.

Seriously, what is with everyone today? And they thought _he_ was…off.

Patented Zack grin is turned on her, that look of his that says he's totally unaffected and that (other than being in the infirmary) everything's a big joke and he's satisfied with his role in it.

Before anything more can be said, though, a rough, by-now-familiar-to-Zack voice cuts through the unequal atmosphere from the other room.

"Mr. Cody Martin, here. Now." Nurse Hatchet calls—summons—commands.

At that, Cody glances at the door, then sighs. His gaze darts between brother and girlfriend one last time, then he reluctantly pulls his hand out of Bailey's and smiles apologetically, mostly in her direction. Then, grumbling something incoherent, he marches determinedly out the door.

It is just him and Bailey now. He can see she's been worrying about something, so… "Sunflowers are supposed to be carefree…or is that daisies?" he muses suddenly. He can't remember which flower his grandmother had given that attribute…

Little furrows above her nose, small lines around her mouth—funny, they look like they spell confusion…Ah, that's because they do. She shakes her head in incomprehension, but he's not surprised; no one's in his head but him.

"Zack…" Bailey's eyebrows rise a little, eyes shut, as she tries to piece something together. Finally, she settles on, "Are you alright?"

Worry. There's a lot more worry than there should be in that tone; by this point, everyone's used to seemingly mindless comments from the bleachers—er, him. She can't be worried about his sanity, then…or at least, not more so than usual. Right?

Whatever it is, it doesn't matter. He sharply rebuffs her worry, closing it off from his heart; if he's going to get by, he has to protect the inside from the outside and vice versa. She doesn't know, of course; she doesn't because she's like everyone else—none of them _could_ know.

"Right as a fiddle," he answers, shrugging.

She tilts her head slightly, bemused. "It's fit as a fiddle."

"And right as rain."

"What?" It seems she doesn't really know what to make of him. Good. Keeping people off balance is essential to getting by them.

Faultlessly clueless. Yet at fault for all the reasons they _are_ clueless. There are reasons people don't know—and he lets them keep those reasons, because he doesn't feel any liberty for that to be different.

"Expressions, _Bran_. We're discussing phraseologies. Keep up." He grins cheekily at the use of the old nickname, referencing back to Bailey's brief stint as a boy in the early days aboard.

"Phraseologies?"

He hops down off the bed. "Yeah, something from something I remember my mom watching."

"What, was it _The Music Man_?" She guesses, looking excited.

He stares at her, then shakes his head, muttering, "Girls."

"Hey!" She protests. Then, in typical Bailey fashion, proceeds to her excited, informative tone, and says, "_The Music Man _is a classic. Rogers and Hammerstein were maestros of musicals. Their work is still popular today. Did you know that they reworked the music theatre scene? They're widely hailed for their use of what's widely called the formula musical, but really it's just—"

"Yeah, yeah, they made an imprint. People had fun. Where do you _get_ your info? Wikipedia?"

She scoffs. "For _your_ 'info,' my momma's a fan; I was practically raised on _Oklahoma!_ and others, like the widely popular _The Sound of_—"

"Yeah, yeah." He waves it off again. "That explains a lot."

"I beg your pardon!" She looks affronted.

He shrugs and grins that infuriating, devil-may-care grin of his.

"Oh, Zack," she sighs suddenly, looking relieved and upset in a rather strange way. Then, without warning, she flings herself at him and her arms are around him, squeezing tightly, and he's caught off guard. "I thought it'd be great to be rid of your insulting and your rudeness, but then I thought that I really would and suddenly I realised I'd do anything just to hear you insult me and Cody again."

Tears wobble in her voice and he's thinking, _Oh God, no_, and wondering why girls keep crying on him today and why everyone's being so stupid and when he became the group's go-to for emotional outbursts…but really, he's just trying not to panic at the touch…

"Gotta breathe, Bailey," he gasps out -in some ways not as fake as in others- at her, hoping it'll get her to let go.

"Oh yes, of course!" She pulls back abruptly, looking embarrassed. "Sorry, Zack. It's just…well, I was afraid that—you know—that you were—were…were dying." Her eyes drop as she says this last, her voice quiet and hitching on the final word in a way he's not sure what to make of.

All he can hope is that she doesn't pull that girly, hormonal thing and burst into tears. God…he doesn't do emotional. He can't stand it when _he_ gets emotional. (This is also a reason why he doesn't ever get his own turn of "crying on someone," and it is _the_ reason that makes it partly his fault.)

Zack tries to preempt and avoid that dreaded outcome, so he hastens to begin inquiries. Because, seriously, this whole thing had gone beyond confusing a long time ago. "Bailey, wha—why would you think that?" Why does everyone keep spouting this notion that he's dying? It's like everyone's been turned into real-life, walking broken records… "First London, now you. Where are you getting your info?" He resists the empty-headed urge to mention Wikipedia again, opting to be a little more straight, serious with her.

"Woody told me that you were dying," she says, biting her lip. She looks haggard and he can only imagine the kind of crazy day everyone seems to be having…and wonders if his trumps theirs.

Time to get a solid point across and bring some levity back to things, because he doesn't do harried, and she's definitely that. "And you believed Woody _why_?" He effects his most fitting "_seriously?_" face he can muster.

"Well…" She laughs sheepishly, and it's the laughing bit, regardless of discomfiture or not, that he'd hoped to get; he offers a small laugh in return as he shakes his head. She continues wryly, "I thought when it was something this serious, he would be right."

He sighs, "Bailey, Bailey, Bailey…" in exaggerated disappointment, making her laugh a little more brightly. He grins.

"Sorry," she apologises, then drops her gaze to the floor, scuffing a foot across the generic-print carpet. Then, a curious, questioning look crosses her face, though she does not lift her head; and asks, "Why _are_ you here though?"

_That_—ah, _that_ is the question keeping him up all night, tossing and turning and begrudging the darkness its liberty of conjuring up his insomnia and his doubts and his questions, his failures and dreams and losses. He watches the time tick by, little glowing lights in the dark room that parade an announcement of the late hour to mock his restless, dogged mind.

He hates those nights. He dreads those nights.

And sometimes, those nights haunt his days and hound at him until he retreats into the defence of sleep to escape their effects.

"Ah, I tripped." He waves it off flippantly, but winces self-deprecatingly. He knows she's not asking him _that_ (haunting, alienating, disheartening, unanswerable—) question. "I've a loose nail in my closet and it's unlucky Tuesday…" He shrugs, then gives her a sharp look. "Don't go telling anyone."

"Of course, Zack," she assures with an amused colour to her tone. Then her brow furrows. "But…_unlucky_ Tuesday?" Her confusion is genuine.

"I'm afraid you don't know everything, Bran." Again, he uses the nickname. To soften the rebuttal. "Unlucky Tuesdays are a family curse. Ask Cody about it sometime. As for all this,"—he gestures around the infirmary—"this is all an overreaction.

"But, then again," he concedes with a reconsidering tone, "this is Cody we're talking about." It's effortless. Like a second skin. He's back in his role of Cody's aloof, derisive older brother. "Mountains out of molehills and Galapagos Gurdies in clear waters."

"Hey now," Bailey warns, loyal girlfriend to the end…even though she's trying not to laugh and isn't being overly convincing in curbing a highly telling giggle at the reference. "I'm sure he felt justified in his actions."

He hides a surge of true derision and refuses to scoff. Instead, he's quizzical. "Justified? Isn't that what Ms. T's always telling us to do with our papers? What's that got to do with Cody?"

And see, he's easily back to being the empty-headed, life's-a-big-joke troublemaker.

And the worst part? That was the biggest joke of it all.

"_I tried to be perfect  
>But nothing was worth it<br>I don't believe it makes me real"  
>-(Pieces) Sum41<em>

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"_The worst lies are the lies we tell ourselves. We live in denial of what we do, even what we think. We do this because we're afraid." -Richard Bach_

Cody, meanwhile, was feeling out of sorts and couldn't for the life of him find his sense of balance and "his place," a sharp contrast to Zack's resigned mentality, but he didn't know this. He's a little preoccupied as per usual to know what went on in his brother's head, but in this case, perhaps that's beside the point.

He finds Nurse Hatchet poring over a file and the form he'd brought back in with him. He's not sure if the expression she's wearing is entirely her normal one or if her scowl is much more pronounced. As he nears, he can hear her muttering something—he can't catch the words, but they sound utterly unfriendly and he decides he does not want to know.

"You, uh, needed something?" He doesn't think he wants to know what this is about. He'd rather not.

"No." For a brief moment, he's confused, but such vanishes as she corrects, "I have to tell you something."

Shuffling around the desk for a moment, she doesn't continue right away. His anxiety steps up another notch. God, couldn't he be anywhere else but here? Heck, facing up to Bailey's father was better than this day had been.

"Right, well. It's about your brother."

He nods uncertainly. He can only imagine.

"While I was running some tests, I—"

His phone rings, interrupting her explanation as he holds up a finger and pulls it from his pocket. Sharp exasperation flashes across the nurse's face and he hastens to explain as he glances at the display. "Sorry, it's my mom. She wouldn't be calling unless it was important. I've got to take this." And perhaps, partially because he'll take any excuse to get away from her.

"Whatever," she snaps, churlish and prickly to the very end.

He would not know for some time, if ever, that that one instance of interruption would be a glaring, momentary lapse in judgment.

"_Furious activity is no substitute for understanding." - H. H. Williams _

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**Author's Note:** So there ya have it. I'm getting the distinct impression that this story will be over soon (breathe sighs of relief; no more angstiness-galore to deal with). I don't think it was quite what people expected it to be, but I'm not entirely conventional, either. As for what few expectations I had, I'd say I got what I wanted out of it. Now I'll stop blabbing about that and mention the chapter...let's see. Seems Cody's avoiding the issue—but I guess we knew that already. So will Nurse Hatchet make the effort again to tell him? What do you think? Zack seems to have everything back under control. Do you think this is a good or bad thing, for him?

"Phraseologies"—seriously a fun word to say. And if anyone's seen _The Music Man_, you probably know what I mean. (Phraseology** -** (1)** use of language: **the way words and phrases are chosen or used)


End file.
